


True Gold

by pelinal



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls I: Arena, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, please read the preface. everything will be tagged as it comes up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 46
Words: 92,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27800317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelinal/pseuds/pelinal
Summary: "Who was his mother? Was it that Gemile girl you had put out of the way, right after the Warp in the West?"a chronicle of the life of Gemile Marciana Caridenius, handmaiden to Empress Caula Voria, third-born to Marcus Aemilianus and Livia Iuliana of County Cheydinhal. Mother of Martin Septim.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 22





	1. Preface

(Feel free to skip this preface, but please read the last point)

if you’re reading this: thank you so much! i’m not normally the person to preface my fics, but this one was the work of a stupid amount of time and thought, and i wanted to make a few points that i think are important.   
  


  * this fic is based on an out-of-game piece by ken rolston, “Caius Cosades' Visit to Uriel VII's Tomb”, namely this bit:



> _ "But in the end, you'd got Martin well-hidden away... you sly dog, I never guessed... and he turned out to be worth twice the lot of those preening fools you got on the scheming witch, Caula Voria, may she die again tomorrow. Who was his mother? Was it that Gemile girl you had put out of the way, right after the Warp in the West?" _

having said that, “True Gold” spans just about 50 years of Gemile’s life -- that is, the part that overlapped with Martin’s.

  * this was written over a little more than 2 years, so (as much as i’ve tried to edit and revamp the earlier chapters) you will definitely notice a change in my style of writing and storytelling. hopefully it’s not too obtrusive!



  * it probably goes without saying that lots of aspects of this fic (khajiiti wedding customs, basically the entirety of the ta’agra and dunmeris vocabulary) were a product of fan interpretations i picked up, but all credit goes to the authors of the ta’agra project and the dunmeris wiki page.  

  *     * that said, i’m not going to be providing translations for either language, even though they appear quite often. my reasoning is that i want anyone reading to understand what gemile understands, and no more or less. (if you’re really curious, though, you can always go back to my sources!)



  * as for the other languages, i’m choosing to represent old cyrodilic with latin, and bretonic with french, just because there is next to no material on either one and i wasn’t really about to conlang them from scratch :’)



  * the caridenii (and by extension, gold leaf moor) are based partly upon tamil south indian culture. as a disclaimer, i’m not part of that culture, and although i put in as much research as possible, i’m liable to fuck something up. please let me know if that happens at any point!



  * all 67 chapters (excluding this preface) are pre-written, and should be posted regularly (1 to 3 at a time, depending on the word count of each one)



  * **(!!!!) some of these chapters will touch on heavy subject matter. i’ve tried my best 1) not to be gratuitous and 2) to be as sensitive as possible. These chapters will be marked like this:** “Chapter 1 (!)” **and will contain both a warning in the initial notes, and usually a brief, non-graphic chapter summary at the end, for those who may have skipped the chapter.**



i think that’s everything! thank you so so much for giving me your eyes and your time - i hope you’ll enjoy sharing in gemile’s life =)


	2. 3E 385, Morning Star 31

Someone knocks. Gemile snaps from the verge of sleep and mumbles "in".   
  


The heavy mahogany door opens to reveal a skinny half-Khajiit boy, with dark hair and dappled fur. He's—does she recognise him from somewhere?   
  


"Good evening," he says.  
  


Evening, then. ". . .Good evening," replies Gemile, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. She starts to sit up, minding the sleeping baby in her lap, and the long, tender birth scar on her belly seizes. She bites hard into her lip.  
  


"Oh, don't put yourself out," says the boy softly, placing a hand on her arm.   
  


Gemile shrugs him off. "It's all  _ right. _ I'm not made of porcelain."  
  


"Of course. I don't—I don't mean to suggest otherwise." He withdraws his hand.  
  


"'s fine," she says, swinging her legs down over the edge of the bed, with the baby nestled against her aching stomach.  "So why exactly are you here?"  
  


"I—well, l-let me introduce myself properly. I am J'hani. And I have come to visit."  
  


"And why's that?"  
  


"Well," J'hani's ear twitches. "Is it not your birthday? Last of the season?"  
  


The 31st already? Gemile sighs. "I suppose it is. Why in Arkay's name do you know that?"  
  


"I asked. Er, others. That is to say. I asked around." J'hani clears his throat again. His tail gives one decisive flick.  
  


"Why?"   
  


"I thought perhaps. . .perhaps you might want company. Considering. Recent events. I brought a present." He thrusts at her a parcel wrapped in brown paper. "Incense," he blurts before Gemile has a chance to undo the red ribbon. "From Elsweyr. I'm told. I have never been, myself, but. . .well, it's my mother's. Meant to balance the baby's humours."  
  


"Balance. . .oh. . ." Is she still dreaming? What a strange dream this is. "I couldn't."  
  


"Please. It is yours."   
  


". . .Thank you, then, er—J'hani?"  
  


"Just so. I also brought, er, a sweet roll. Two, as a matter of fact. One with the cinnamon and one without—just in case. . .oh, no, please don't."  
  


Please don't what? Gemile feels the corners of her mouth droop. Suddenly she is weeping—forcefully, into her hands, trying not to stir the baby.  
  


J'hani sits down on her bed, in silence.  
  


"Thank you," Gemile manages between sobs. She leans her head on his shoulder. After a moment's hesitation, J'hani slings his arm about her waist. His fur bristles against the back of her blouse.  
  


"Perhaps I should make myself scarce," he mutters.  
  


"Please don't."  
  


Burbling quietly, the baby reaches up toward the ceiling. Cautiously, J'hani nudges the tiny hand, and the baby cries out and grabs hold of J'hani's little finger.  
  


"Oh," he says, his yellow eyes wide as platters. "Hello, little one. What's your name?"  
  


"Martinus. Tinus if you like," says Gemile. "Unless his. . .unless—that man decides otherwise, so I don't call him that yet."  
  


"I-I don't see why not." J'hani slowly and carefully shakes Tinus' pudgy hand. "Martinus. A good name."  
  


In the distance, the grating voice of an old man calls J'hani's name, and then a slew of Colovian insults.  
  


J'hani sighs. "Well, that's me. But—I— er, if ever you have need of me, I'm usually around. You know—someone to keep an eye on the—on—Martinus, if you—well. Yes. You know."  
  


"Thank you, J'hani. This was nice."   
  


"Good luck, Gemile," says J'hani, rising from the bed—and with that, he is gone.


	3. 3E 385, Sun's Dawn 15

The Empress jiggles the baby in her lap, slowly as calm water. "He's absolutely beautiful."  
  


"How can you say that?" asks Gemile.  
  


Caula fixes her with a gaze so serene it makes her eyelids heavy. "Gemile, you believe in the Nine."  
  


"Of course."  
  


"As do I. I believe the Nine make everything happen for a good reason. There is a divine plan at work in all things." Caula allows herself a small smile. "In you and me, and just the same in Martinus. Martinus," she repeats. "You named him with your own family in mind. Martinus Caridenius."  
  


"I suppose I did."  
  


"Pray Akatosh that he keeps it."  
  


"I. . ." Gemile clears her throat. "Er, speaking of children, my lady. Is Ebel about?"  
  


"He is with one of the maids. All of five years old, but not yet a terribly responsible child." Strands of Caula's long hair fall over her shoulder and brush Martinus' face. She moves them patiently back into place. "I thought we'd be better off. . .just the two of us." Her dark eyes flicker up to meet Gemile's—quickly she looks back down at the baby. "Three of us, I should say, my boy."  
  


"Do you. . .you must have found a new handmaiden, lately?"  
  


"Mm." Caula doesn't look up. "Lovely girl. Doesn't hold a candle to you, I promise."  
  


Gemile looks around the room; pristine as ever. Caula's rosewood cane lies forgotten in the corner.  
  


"Do you know how I love that man?" says Caula. Her eyes well with tears and her lip trembles. "It seems so terribly silly, what with Calaxes and now Martinus and all the other. . ."  
  


Quietly, Gemile rises from her seat and runs her fingers through the long auburn coils of Caula's hair, as she often has—the only touch the Empress can stand. "I hate to add to your grief," she says, after a while.  
  


"Silly girl. You are the reason I survive my grief." Caula sniffs. "I mustn't talk like this. I'm no better at all than my husband. Please leave and take Martinus."  
  


". . .right away." Gemile takes up the baby as gently as she can. Caula looks in the other direction, blinking rapidly.


	4. 3E 385, First Seed 24

The wet nurse—a squat, broad-shouldered Nord woman—coos at the baby in her sing-song Cyrodilic. Gemile feels her heart sink, as it always does when she parts from Martinus. Fool girl, she tells herself, lighting a final candle on her desk.  
  


She finds herself nattering. "I'll be an hour at most. I'm sorry to call for you at this bloody hour—I just—he wouldn't sleep. . .and—I need to stretch my legs—"  
  


"Don't worry so much, my girl," says the nurse. Tinus has finally realised that Gemile is leaving, and begins to whinge in that warning tone that always leads to a storm of bawling and shrieking. "We'll be well. Go on."  
  


Gemile throws on a shawl and shuts the door behind her as quick as she can, welcoming the sudden chill of the night.   
  


The servants' quarters are on her way, and she balls her fists to stop herself knocking on the door. She sees the others in passing now, less than ever, delivering meals or dusting her ugly fucking armoire before flitting away again. No poor bastard in the dungeons is more stir-crazy than she, trapped in her lush quarters with the Emperor's baby.  
  


She walks in the direction of the palace proper, turning the key to the servants' entrance in its shuddering lock. The marble hallways are quiet except for a sleepy conversation between two guards on the midnight shift.  
  


"Hello," calls one of them, with a scholarly North Colovian turn to his voice, "Someone there?"  
  


"Caridenius," says Gemile. "I'm looking for Ria Silmane."  
  


"The witch? Aye, she'll be fiddling with her potions again. Go on in, if you must."  
  


Gemile nods at him and hurries past. Ria's door, a ridiculous old oaken thing with wrought-iron supports that looks utterly out of place in the pristine palace, is slightly ajar. Blue light flows out into the dark hallway.  
  


"Silmane?" says Gemile, craning her neck to see inside. "All right?"  
  


"I always am," answers Ria. A horrible sound comes, unholy, like an explosion in reverse and underwater. Gemile covers her ears.  
  


Ria steps out, her long soft hair silvery-blue in the strange light. She wipes her cheek, clearing away a bluish spatter. "Hello," she says, panting a little.  
  


"What in the name of the gods was that?"  
  


" _Innovation_ , my darling. Also nothing we need to. . ." Ria jumps as the magical light crackles, flashes green, and a curdled, smoky smell descends on the area. ". . .concern Master Tharn with. . .right. Can we take this inside?"  
  


Gemile wrinkles her nose. "I'd really rather not."  
  


"Oh, don't be a baby. Come, I have to keep an eye on this mess." Ria grabs her by the wrist and tugs her inside, where the light illuminates the room as if it were midday instead of midnight. "So what's on your mind?"  
  


"Just that we haven't talked in a while."  
  


Ria frowns, but keeps quiet. Her face is strange and ghostly in the blue cast of the room.  
  


"And maybe," Gemile continues, "I was hoping my favourite sorceress could throw together a bit of a sleeping aid?"  
  


"Say no more," Ria grins. "I should have some of the. . .um. . ." She kneels at her reagent cupboard and riffles through various boxes and jars. "Blisterwort. . .wormwood. . .fuck's sake." Ria disappears behind the cupboard door. "So," she asks, "is it nightmares again?"  
  


"I don't want to talk about it."  
  


"About the Emperor."  
  


Gemile breathes deeply. Ria is a good friend—but she can be so bloody thickheaded. "I don't want to talk about it."  
  


"If you say so. Is it the boy? Does he look very much like him? Or is it Caula? Do you feel like—"  
  


"Silmane, shut up."  
  


"Fine." Ria reappears, one hand raised in a gesture of peace, and in the other a small drawstring pouch. She's still frowning. "Gemile Caridenius, I worry about you. Do you think he's going to have you removed from court? Can she stop him? Or worse, he—"  
  


"Ria—" She wants to speak, but there's a lump in her throat, and she's so tired she might fall over here and now. "I'm going to sleep, Ria," she says in a shaking voice.  
  


Ria looks as if she's been struck. She pulls Gemile into a tight hug. "Gem, Gem, Gem," she murmurs. "Get a good night's rest."  
  


"I will," says Gemile, dreading the moment when Ria will let go, and she'll go back to that room.  
  


"I'll come by tomorrow," Ria promises. "I'll be there the moment that old crank lets me off for the day."  
  


"OK." Gemile sniffs and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. "Thank you."  
  


Outside, she holds her breath for a long time, feeling the tears turn cold on her cheeks. Uriel's pale face looms in her mind tonight, sweaty with exertion—his blue eyes water.  
  


Tinus' tantrum has passed by the time she's gathered the courage to go back—he's sound asleep, and the Nord nurse is rocking his cot softly with her foot. She presses a finger to her lips, smiles and leaves Gemile alone.


	5. 3E 385, Rain's Hand 6 (!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very minor warning for some tooth trauma!

"I keep forgetting how little he is. . ." Ria blinks rapidly and hugs Martinus to her chest with a cheek-splitting grin on her face. "Can I be his godmother?"  
  


Gemile half-laughs. "I mean—"  
  


"He doesn't half look like you, Gemile!" Ria's friend, a wood elf with an elaborate black updo, chirps. "And that's a good thing, you know—the Septims may have been touched by Akatosh, but Uriel certainly was no object of Dibella's blessing—"  
  


"Turwyn, shut up, someone'll hear you. Calling the Emperor ugly is high treason!"  
  


"He wouldn't behead me for a bit of gossip. . ." Turwyn trails off uncertainly.  
  


"He could," says Gemile.  
  


Ria shrieks. "See! If you like your head where it is, you'll keep that talk to the mages' quarters!"  
  


"Where Tharn is? You're joking." Turwyn shakes her head.  
  


"Well, you're not within earshot of Master Tharn at night, are you?" Ria bursts out giggling. "I should hope you aren't!"  
  


" _ Ria Silmane! _ Me? With that dried-up old—is it because we're both Bosmer? Is that it?"  
  


"Actually he's half—"  
  


"OK,  _ enough. _ " Gemile stops in her tracks. Ria and Turwyn both spin around to face her. "Ria, don't swing him like that, give him to me." Ria hands over the baby with a bemused look on her face. "Now you had better tell me where we're going, or I'm leaving."  
  


"Just to the mess, love," says Ria. "We thought it might do you some good to see the others again."  
  


Gemile lets out a breath. "All right."  
  


One of the dining hall doors is slightly ajar; yellow light, the scent of fresh bread, and the babbling of dozens of voices fill the humid evening air.  
  


Gemile spots a few of the Blades-in-training (whom she likes, because they're too young yet to be as insufferable as the full Bladesmen), and some of the cooks she used to pass Caula's orders on to. One of them, a chubby Breton boy called Marc, waves her over.  
  


"Oi! Gem! Gemile! Let's see the kid!"  
  


"It's good to see you, too," Gemile rolls her eyes, taking the empty seat next to him.  
  


"Don't be like that," grins Marc, holding out his hands. "Come on. I only want to see what he looks like."  
  


Gemile chews her lip. "Can you be very, very careful?"  
  


"What am I, ten?"  
  


"I don't know, are you?"  
  


That makes him choke on a mouthful of flatbread. "I'm fifteen and a half, which is older than Silya and Talin, so if you trust  _ them _ —!"  
  


"Come off it, short stack," spits Silya, a spindly high elf Blade-to-be still in her training helmet. "I'm sixteen. And don't be a prick to Gem."  
  


Talin, her sparring partner, only rubs at an old bruise beneath his lip and watches the exchange with big, vigilant eyes.  
  


"Gem, come on," whines Marc.  
  


"Well, when you put it that way. No."  
  


"Pff. Having that kid made you a complete bitch." Marc sulkily turns back to his food. Just as Gemile considers tossing his plate across the room, someone taps the boy on his shoulder.  
  


"Got a problem, cat?"  
  


"No," says a vaguely familiar voice. "I was only wondering whether this seat was taken."  
  


Marc opens his mouth to speak, but looks instead into J'hani's eyes with an expression of rising terror. "It's all yours," he stammers, grabs his food and makes a run for it.  
  


J'hani sighs shakily. "Hi," he says, glancing at Gemile.  
  


"Hi yourself." She scoots over to make room. "Come sit."  
  


"Thank you." J'hani runs a hand through his hair. "I-I'm sorry. I really shouldn't have interfered. It's good to see you?" He trails off awkwardly.  
  


"You too. And thanks. I wasn't in any mood for him. Hey," Gemile nods down at the sleepy bundle of Martinus in her arms, "have you had dinner? Will you hold him so I can eat?"  
  


"Of course—my pleasure!" J'hani takes the baby with the same gentleness as the last time, taking care to support Tinus' head as he does. He couldn't have looked more awed if she'd just handed him the Red Dragon Crown.  
  


Gemile doesn't realise how hard she's smiling until she tries to push a forkful of spiced beef past her lips and dissolves into quiet laughter.  
  


"Is something wrong?"   
  


"No—nothing." She shakes her head. "What was that you did to Marc?"  
  


"Oh. . .call it a little. . .Khajiiti trick, I suppose."  
  


"Can you teach me?"  
  


J'hani's voice is filled with sympathy, and Gemile doesn't care for it. "It has to do with the physiology of our eyes, I think. My mother says we channel the moon, or something of that order."  
  


"But if you can do it, then so can I."  
  


"I'm. . .not certain I follow."  
  


"Where is your father from?"  
  


J'hani glances down at Tinus and then fixes Gemile with a strange look. "Is that a trick question?"  
  


"No."  
  


". . .He was from Elsweyr."  
  


"But you're not a full Khajiit."  
  


"Who says?" snaps J'hani—regret crosses his face almost immediately. "Maybe I should explain: we take many forms depending on the phases of the moons under which we are born. There are Khajiit you could not tell from housecats, and Khajiit you could not tell from elves."  
  


"And that's you."  
  


"Not quite, although I'm told I come close.  _ Ohmes-raht,  _ we're called."  
  


"Hm," says Gemile, around a mouthful of rice, "no scary eye magic for me, then."  
  


J'hani chuckles. "I'm afraid not."  
  


"Bet I could do it," says Silya, setting the helmet down and gathering her stringy straw-coloured hair into a plait.  
  


"That's not magic, you're just a scary person," says Talin quietly. He looks briefly at Gemile, sea-green irises catching the light.  
  


Silya snickers. "You say that to me, and then you make moony eyes at Gem at the same time."  
  


"Was not," says Talin, in the same even tone, though a furious blush rises to his face. "Gemile?"  
  


"Talin." She offers him a modest smile.  
  


"Can I hold him?"  
  


"Hm." Gemile nudges J'hani gently. "Is he asleep?"  
  


"I think so," J'hani half-whispers, frowning at the baby in his concentration.  
  


"Well, it's a pain getting him to sleep. Come over tomorrow some time."  
  


"Sure," Talin mumbles.  
  


They sit for a while—Gemile nursing an earthen mug of nettle tea; J'hani humming a foreign lullaby to Martinus; Silya and Talin talking combat maneuvers. Ria and her friend (Turwen?) are nowhere to be found.  
  


From the far side of the hall, a figure saunters up to the table. Gemile stares him down the entire time, but it's no use; Caius Cosades, smug as ever, takes the sprig of mint from between his lips and points it at Gemile like a shriveled finger. "Gemile Caridenius, as I live and breathe."  
  


Gemile returns to her tea.  
  


"So that's the little tyke, is he?" Cosades leans forward, placing a massive hand each on Talin and Silya's shoulders to get a better angle. J'hani instinctively holds the baby closer to his chest and Gemile has to bite back a spiteful smile. "Not a lot of Septim in him, looks like."  
  


Still no one speaks, although Silya looks like she has a few choice words for the second-in-command of the Emperor's Blades.  
  


"Well," says Cosades, stepping back and toying with the laces on his blouse collar, "far be it from me to torment you for my own amusement. I bear a message."  
  


"Let's hear it, Caius," says Gemile.  
  


Cosades smirks. "You've a summons from His Majesty himself. A manner of banquet. I'll be there, of course, and the Chancellor, and little Talin's namesake, General Warhaft," he nods in Talin's direction. "And captain Qamar, if the stuck-up bitch will oblige us. Oh! And Lady Caula, of course! Finally well enough to rejoin the living."  
  


Gemile makes no effort to hide her deep sigh. "Tomorrow evening?"  
  


"Aye. An hour or so after dusk. Someone will come for you. Don't bring the baby," he adds.  
  


"D'you think I'm stupid? Go fall on your sword, of course I'm not going to bring the baby."  
  


"I thought I'd make sure. That runt has eaten up your whole life, hasn't he." Cosades steps back and rubs at his chin. "You know, I was  _ sure _ if anyone was going to end up in Sly Uri's bedchambers it was going to be young Talin. You know—scrawny. Dad's halfway important. Pretty eyes just like— _ hey! _ " Talin has thrown himself at Cosades, practically foaming at the mouth. Silya has to tackle the poor boy and hold him back by his waist.  
  


"He's just a child, you arsehole," says Gemile. "Sod off."  
  


"I-I'm certain the other Blades make better company than we, sir," says J'hani, over Talin's loud swearing.  
  


Cosades seems to consider it, scratching his thickly-stubbled jaw. Golden hair falls into his eyes. He's terribly handsome out of his armour; it should be impossible for a man who looks as he does to be hated. Cosades is just that good at making enemies.  
  


"Never put your hands on me, you spoiled little prick." He draws back his fist and strikes Talin to the ground, and then he meanders back to his herd of stupid Blades.  
  


Gemile stands before she can think about it, feeling something tear in her middle. But that's not important. Silya is already cradling Talin in her arms, throwing a murderous look over her shoulder. Talin dribbles out two teeth and a little river of blood. Shuddering, Gemile gathers up the teeth and closes them in her palm.  
  


"Hey. Speak," says Silya tersely.  
  


"Uughh," says Talin.  
  


"Bit more, idiot. Here, what's your name?"  
  


"I doubt that he is concussed. . ." J'hani has made his way calmly around the table and crouches beside them. Tinus has woken from the commotion and begun to prattle. J'hani hushes him.  
  


"Shut up. You." Silya jostles Talin's head. "What's your name? Your full name?"  
  


"Fulvius Talin Velvassius. Come off it, Sil, I'm fine." It still seems to take a lot for him to sit up. A damp curl falls into his face. "Gemile," he mumbles, poking his tongue into the lining of his cheek, "'ve you got any of my teeth?"  
  


"Here," says Gemile, opening her palm and offering them to him.  
  


"One short," says Talin, taking them and pushing them into place with a small squelch.   
  


"I've got one." Silya, looking ill, pinches a glistening canine between her fingers.  
  


Talin takes it, places it, and presses his palms to the sides of his face. Suddenly, like a god, he lights up with an internal glow. He gives it about a minute and then clacks his teeth together experimentally. "Good as new. I think."  
  


Silya whistles. "By the Eight, that Ria Silmane's taught you a thing or two, hasn't she?"  
  


"Gemile," says J'hani, idly smoothing the baby's hair, "are you bleeding?"  
  


"I think I tore a stitch," she sighs, without even needing to see herself. "I feel like a fucking glass figure."  
  


She looks down at last to see the blood spreading along the curve of her belly. Silya and Talin watch too.  
  


"I can. . .heal it—" Talin starts to say, but Silya interrupts him.  
  


"What, so you can feel her up? Dream on! I'm getting Ria." And without giving a scandalised, red-faced Talin any chance to defend himself, she scoops Gemile into her arms like a bride and sets off.  
  


"S-Sil, she's gone back to her study!" Talin calls after them.  
  


"Fine," Silya calls back.  
  


Good as her word, she carries Gemile all across the courtyard and into the mages' corridor in the main building. When they reach Ria's door, Gemile sticks out her foot and kicks it soundly.  _ "Silmane!"  
  
_

"We've got a casualty!" adds Silya, guffawing.  
  


Ria opens the door and immediately runs back to a small pewter cauldron in the centre of the room, which is emitting frightening amounts of red smoke.  
  


"That's a little charm the Emperor personally requested. It's going to be coloured fire for the torches," says Ria proudly, sprinkling something in so that a few brilliant flames appear through the smoke.   
  


"It looks and smells like a magical fart," says Silya, wrinkling her nose.  
  


"What are you two doing here, anyway?"  
  


"I tore a stitch," shrugs Gemile.  
  


"Well, I can hardly help that, can I?"  
  


"It's not like I can ask the Emperor's physician again."  
  


Ria sighs and snaps her fingers, conjuring a blue ball of light the size of a fist, which floats over her shoulder, illuminating Gemile as she draws close. "You need that skirt off. I can't heal through cloth."  
  


Silya walks over to a battered chaise longue in the side of the room and lays Gemile across it. "I'll be going."  
  


Gemile smiles at her. "Cheers, Silya. Oh—"  
  


"What?"  
  


"Will you check on J'hani and Martinus?"  
  


"Gotcha," says Silya, and leaves.  
  


"It doesn't need to come all the way off," says Ria, once Silya has left the room. "Just a bit below the hips, I think."  
  


"Fine." Gemile's face burns as she undoes her sash and moves the skirt a little ways down, wincing as the fabric comes unstuck from the oozing scar. She's perfectly decent still, but the clinical look Ria gives her makes her feel utterly naked. Then Ria lays a manicured hand over the scar and Gemile's stomach nearly escapes through her mouth. The warmth of Ria's palm is like an electric current running beneath her skin—until the crackling, uncomfortable coming-together feeling of the healing spell brings her back to reality.  
  


The instant Ria pulls away, and the wound is healed, Gemile fixes her skirt again and rises to her feet. Ria grins, tucking a silky strand of hair behind her ear. "All better?"  
  


"All—all better."


	6. 3E 385, Rain's Hand 7 (!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for a very brief, oblique mention of sexual assault!

Gemile smooths out her duvet, fluffs Martinus' pillow and sets it in his cot.  
  


"Please don't fret," says J'hani with a lopsided smile. "I'm nervous just watching you."  
  


"Then look somewhere else." Gemile peers out the window; the last streaks of orange are just fading from the sky. "I don't want to do this."  
  


"I can imagine."  
  


"You know I haven't seen any of that lot since I was first. . .you know. He—the Emperor came once, after he was born, and that was that." Heaving a deep sigh, Gemile drops onto the bed next to J'hani. "Make sure he gets plenty of that stuff, the porridge. . .he doesn't half make a mess with it. Sorry."  
  


"That's all right. This is an old shirt," J'hani smiles.  
  


"Also you might try making faces at him. He loves that lately. Oh." She looks him up and down briefly. "I don't know if you have any amulets or things on, but I'd watch your earrings. Little bastard tore mine right out last week." She moves aside her thick hair to reveal the split earlobe, just beginning to scar.  
  


J'hani breathes out sharply. "I'll keep out of arm's reach."  
  


Gemile grins. "He's got a longer reach than you think."  
  


Someone knocks at the door—three cordial raps.   
  


"Bollocks," hisses Gemile, dusts herself off and stands. "How do I look?"  
  


"Lovely," breathes J'hani. "Good! Good, that is. Nice." He doesn't go quite as red as Talin does—but then Talin is pale as Secunda and betrays even the slightest blush right away. Still, he looks flushed even beneath his fine, tawny fur.  
  


"Thank you." Gemile thinks for a moment. More knocking, louder this time. "I'll be one moment!" she cries, and then turns to J'hani. "What was that song you were humming to Tinus the other day?"  
  


J'hani hasn't quite recovered. "I-I don't—I don't remember humming. It would have been a tune of my mother's."  
  


"Well, sing to him if you like. He can't get enough of it. Or if you have any stories from your mother or someone, that'll do." Gemile quickly re-ties the sash on her dress as she opens the door.   
  


"Good luck!" calls J'hani.  
  


"You too," Gemile laughs. She greets the waiting Bladesman and the two set off toward the palace.  
  


"You must have other duties besides carting me about," remarks Gemile as the wet grass brushes against her feet. Bloody satin slippers.  
  


"Only following orders, miss."  
  


"Hmm." Gemile glances back in the direction of her room. Cosades said that the baby was eating up her life. . .he meant it as a dig, but, damn his blood, he was right. It's as if there's some invisible cord connecting her with Martinus, and the farther it stretches, the closer it comes to snapping. She takes a deep, agitated breath.  
  


"Here we are."   
  


"Oh," says Gemile, shaking the erratic thoughts from her mind. "Thank you, I suppose."  
  


"My pleasure," says the Bladesman, already turning around. "I suppose."  
  


The central palace is huge and bright and Gemile feels quite small and drab standing in front of it. One of the guards, dressed in a self-important suit of armour inlaid with gold, sneers at her as she passes. Gemile ignores her.  
  


Even the thin soft soles of her slippers strike a massive echo on the marble floor of the palace halls. Every torch is lit tonight, and the flames charmed to burn white or red for the occasion. The gilded double doors to the castle's smallest banquet room are closed; open instead is the adjoining room, which Gemile has never entered before. It's large, but nearly unfurnished, and filled with important-looking people. She spots Blade Captain Qamar in full regalia. Arkay's mercy.  
  


Gemile slinks into the hall, trying to keep to the walls, when a page boy with puffy sleeves catches sight of her and announces: "Gemile Marciana Caridenius, third born to Marcus Caridenius of Gold Leaf Moor. . ." and then trails off, because she has no titles to speak of.   
  


"Gemile," simpers Cosades, seeming to appear out of nowhere, dressed in deep blue velvet that sets his golden hair aglow. "It's good to see you. And without your little bundle of joy for a change!"  
  


"Cosades."  
  


"I see you kept your attire. . .simple. You know, I was on pins and needles waiting to see how that poor page would try to make you sound grand. I thought 'friend to the Emperor' would have been quite nice. Subtler than 'bed-whore', anyway. Now everyone's just wondering what in hells' name you're doing here, if not serving drinks."  
  


A surge of anger flashes through her. She might have struck him, if they were anywhere else in the world. "Dickhead," she says instead, and slips away from him. He doesn't call after her.   
  


Gemile launches into the thick of the crowd without much hope of striking up a conversation—if all else fails, maybe one of the servants will be a familiar face. But it doesn't come to that.  
  


"Gemile," Talin sighs. "Thank Shor. This is going to be so bloody boring."  
  


Gemile lets out a relieved laugh. "What are you doing here?"  
  


"I am a squire, aren't I? My pa wants me going to as many of these things as possible. Plus General Warhaft is here. S'pose he thinks some of that Nordy beardy stuff'll rub off on me."  
  


"You're plenty Nordy. Not so much beardy. It'll come." Gemile notices she's shuffling her feet, and stills them. "So how are you, after. You know."  
  


"After Caius knocked the teeth out of my head?"  
  


"Yeah."  
  


"All right, actually. Ria didn't half shout at me after for fixing my own teeth. Said it could have been very nasty if I'd fucked it up."  
  


"Oi!" snaps Gemile, and swats him on the shoulder before she can stop herself.  
  


"Oi yourself!" Talin, frowning bemusedly at her, looks for all the world like a chastised toddler.  
  


"I—sorry," she smiles. "I have two foul-mouthed little siblings."  
  


"That's what I am, then? Your misbehaving little brother?" presses Talin, unsmiling.  
  


"Come on, I don't mean anything by it. I just wasn't thinking."  
  


"I bet you'd never hit J'hani for cursing."  
  


"Have you  _ met  _ J'hani? I don't think he  _ can _ curse." Gemile sighs. "Talin, don't be a baby."  
  


And Talin goes red and storms off, leaving Gemile partnerless for the second time in ten minutes.  
  


Thankfully, an attendant is already ushering people into the dining hall; Gemile catches glimpses of the smaller, familiar room through a sudden throng of nobles.   
  


"Please," says a tall young servant girl she's never seen before, "come with me." Together they approach the long, elevated table with its high-backed golden seats reserved for the most important guests.  
  


"There's been a mistake," says Gemile, as the girl points her to a spot only two chairs away from the grandest seats of all: those of the Emperor and Empress. And there they are; Uriel raising his arms in a welcoming gesture, Caula beside him with a faint smile on her deep-red lips.  
  


"I would like," begins Uriel, "to extend a welcome to all those gathered here, and my gratitude for joining me tonight in this feast among friends. Please, be at ease. All that is mine is yours also." He catches Gemile's eye and nods almost invisibly in her direction. No mistake, then.  
  


As the guests applaud, Gemile looks around anxiously for the two people who will save her from the Emperor's gaze—and there, thank the Gods, Blade Captain Qamar ascends and stands beside the chair marked for her. Gemile follows suit.   
  


"Good evening to you," says the Blade Captain, with a slow smile. She has taken off her ceremonial helmet, and balances it on her hip with one hand as she holds the other out for a handshake—which Gemile accepts, with a flutter in her chest. There is a tiny diamond laid into Qamar's bottom tooth.  
  


"Gemile Caridenius," says Gemile.  
  


"Fatima al-Qamar," says Qamar. "A pleasure." She doesn't pry as to what Gemile is doing at an elite function, but her dark eyes are compassionate. "Are you nervous, Gemile?" Her musical Hammerfell accent softens the name—the way it's meant to be said—sending shivers down Gemile's spine.  
  


Gemile stammers. "I, ah, b—pardon, what was the question?"  
  


"Please be seated," says the attendant, and the captain sets her helmet on the table.  
  


Qamar grins broadly. Crows' feet crinkle at the outer corners of her eyes."I have my answer," she decides. "Don't worry too much. The night will go by quickly."  
  


The servants bring huge, creamy bowls of soup with thick slices of fresh bread and discs of herbed goat's cheese, toasted about the edges. Qamar clears her plate. The middle-aged dark elf on Gemile's left glares, himself measuring every bite to those that the Emperor takes. He leaves just over half the bread and cheese and most of the soup.  
  


"We haven't met yet," Gemile tells him uncertainly.   
  


"I beg your pardon?" The elf uses his minor height advantage to sneer down at her with all his might. "I am Count Indarys of Cheydinhal. I oversee all the lands from the Valus Mountains stretching into the eastern Heartlands. Who are you to me?"  
  


Ah. "No one, my lord. My apologies."  
  


"Give the poor girl a rest, Andel," croaks the old man to Indarys' left. "Try to spend one eve, lad, without leaping at no one's throat. Might surprise yerself at that."  
  


"Kindly keep your lifestyle advice to yourself, Goldwine."  
  


"Shame," says Goldwine, scratching his bald crown good-naturedly.  _ Colovians, _ Indarys mutters. "And you, girl?"  
  


"Me, my lord?"   
  


"Aye, don't be thick," says Goldwine, as the servants set down glistening boar meat in beds of roasted potatoes. "Bright girl. Don't suit you. Your name, if y'please."  
  


"Gemile. . .Marciana Caridenius of Gold Leaf Moor."  
  


"Where's'at?"  
  


"In between Lake Poppod and the Reed, sir. On the banks of the Corbolo. 'In the arms of the river,' my father likes to say."  
  


"Ha!" the old man barks. "She's one of yours, Andel! Show a little duty to yer people, then!"  
  


Indarys ignores him—the Emperor has already dug into his roast, and the Count of Cheydinhal is apparently not the man to lag behind.  
  


Goldwine scoffs. "Food's not goin' nowhere." He leans forward and winks at Gemile. "Irregardless. Name's Aloisius Goldwine, Count Kvatch."  
  


"A  _ first-generation _ noble, in case you couldn't tell," adds Indarys, wiping sauce from the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief.  
  


"Don't you start, Andel. You know I'm no elf-hater, but you've a way of testin' men's patience."  
  


"So, I fear, do you, Goldwine. You animate belch of a man."  
  


"Oh, gripe about me while y'can," cackles the old man, "soon enough I'll die, I expect, and my boy'll take the throne. My Ormellius," he grins conspiratorially at Gemile, "always knows which—which blumming spoon to use, and talks better'n any weaseltongued Nibenean—Nibenese? Nibenean. Fie. Even has hisself a great plummy city name. They fixed mine when I got my title—he were born with his! What a count he'll make!"  
  


"I look forward to it." Indarys rolls his eyes.  
  


"Aye, don't worry yerself." Goldwine claps him hard on the back and Indarys nearly spits a mouthful of boar meat across the room. "Gods willin' you'll find a thing'r two so as you don't have to stop yer griping. Could be my Ormellius picks his nose when he thinks no one's lookin'."  
  


Gemile lets her gaze wander around the room. The small, clustered tables below are one course behind, from the looks of it. There's Talin, picking distractedly at his soup, and his father—a burly dark-haired Nord. The Blades sit together as usual and seem to be enjoying themselves—all except Cosades, who's glaring up at her. His face is so sour his plate might be stacked high with rancid troll fat, instead of a meal from the Imperial kitchens.  
  


Is it because she's sitting at the Emperor's table, and not he? Gemile makes eye contact, grinning from ear to ear.  
  


As Qamar predicted, the night goes by quickly after that. The final course is served, a colourful array of fruit puddings with tufts of sugared cream on top. Gemile finishes it all, and as she puts down her spoon, Qamar whispers into her ear that the Emperor wants her to stay behind when the proceedings end. Gemile nods, her heart hammering.  
  


Soon enough Uriel is giving the room a short parting speech, and those with no more business file out of the room. Qamar touches Gemile's shoulder and winks before making her exit. Uriel glances tactfully at his wife, but Caula only crosses her arms and pretends not to notice. Cosades sees the other Blades off, but doesn't rise from his own seat. Instead he disappears into the kitchens.  
  


Almost immediately, a retinue of cleaners enters the room and sets to work. If J'hani hadn't pleaded for a shift change, he'd be among them. Gemile sighs at the thought of being shouted at all day by that fat Colovian with his cauliflower ear and warty lip.  
  


A Breton in nondescript robes taps her on the shoulder. "Excuse me,  _ ma'am, _ " he says, with just enough irony in his voice to make her blood boil, "I believe the Emperor desires a word."  
  


"And you are?" snaps Gemile before she can think better of it.  
  


The Breton's thick eyebrows shoot up, but his smile is frozen in place. "Jauffre. . .shall we say Jauffre L'Étranger. A pleasure indeed."  
  


"Oh. Gemile—"  
  


"I'm well aware. Shall we?"  
  


The Emperor is chatting with a grey-haired Bosmer as Gemile and Jauffre approach. Caula stands by, smiling demurely when she catches Gemile's eye. Cosades has returned from the kitchens with a red apple and a small silver knife, and starts to core the apple as he watches from the background.  
  


". . .But I ought to let you speak with your other guests, my lord. My apologies."  
  


"I have no need of your apologies, Emissary. I trust we'll meet at the forum?"  
  


"Naturally, your Highness. In fact, I'll be in the Imperial City for the week, should you ever wish to call upon me."  
  


"Of course. The Nine bless you and keep you during your stay, Silrilgor."  
  


"And you, my lord. My lady." Silrilgor bows deeply to the Emperor, nods to Caula, and excuses himself.  
  


"Gemile," says Uriel quietly, and she forces herself to look into his rheumy blue eyes. "So you've met Jauffre."  
  


She nods. He holds her gaze. Gemile looks at Jauffre, who raises his eyebrows meaningfully. "I have," she says finally. "My lord."  
  


"Good. Good. . ." Uriel contemplates his clasped hands for a moment. "How. . .is the boy?"  
  


"He's well." Growing like a weed, she almost says, but Uriel mightn't take kindly to having his offspring referred to as a weed. Although Caula would find it funny. "He's very clever for his age."  
  


"The words of a mother," says Jauffre with a tight smile. Gemile's stomach lurches.  
  


"No, he honestly is clever. He's speaking."  
  


Caula beams at her. "Is he?"  
  


"That aside," Uriel cuts in. "I wanted to speak with you. . .about how we should proceed, regarding the child."  
  


"Regarding Martinus," corrects Caula.  
  


"Caula, this is not your affair."  
  


"No," says Caula, her dark eyes glittering, "it was yours." She smiles. "I will not be removed. Say your piece, Uriel."  
  


Uriel heaves a long-suffering sigh and addresses Gemile again. "I will speak plainly. You cannot raise him within the walls of the Imperial City."  
  


"I—" Gemile chokes a little. "All right. I understand."  
  


Jauffre mouths 'my lord' at her and she wants to strike him.  
  


"This leaves you two choices. You forfeit your position here and. . .take. . .Martinus with you. You will renounce, pre-emptively and on his behalf, any claim to the throne, and any privilege, financial or otherwise, which is afforded to us heirs of the Septim blood."  
  


This statement he leaves hanging in the air like fog. Gemile can't move under the weight of it. Her mouth won't speak.  
  


After a few seconds of painful silence, Jauffre speaks for her, prompting Uriel: "Or?"  
  


"Or," answers Uriel, his eyes still boring into Gemile's, "you depart the palace, but without. . .Martinus. He will be acquainted with his brothers and raised as my own son, with all the according boons and responsibilities. And of course I will see to it that you are. . .well compensated for the loss of your income."  
  


"He'll be a bastard," Gemile manages. "He's not—he looks nothing like the princes. And Lady Caula, you. . ."  
  


"Easily—excuse me. May I?" Jauffre looks to Uriel, who nods. "As I say, that is easily remedied, when the time comes for him to make his debut. And not without precedent."  
  


Gemile squeezes her eyes shut, and opens them only when she's certain she won't be glaring daggers at His Imperial Majesty. "I understand."  
  


Uriel puts a hand on her shoulder and she fights not to pull away. "This is a difficult situation we find ourselves in. Please take your time in coming to a decision."  
  


Gemile nods, biting her lip to shreds. "Excuse me, then, my lord and my lady." Difficult bloody situation.  _ All of this is your fault,  _ she wants to say. She wants to scream it into his face. Now she has a choice? Not in lying with him—not in bearing the child—but now?    
  


She takes a deep breath, as deep as she can, and walks out of the hall. Cosades holds out his saucer to her on her way out. Eight apple slices in a pinwheel pattern. He says nothing for once, and her head hurts and so she takes a slice. She bites into it as the evening cold seeps into her limbs, trying very hard to banish all the thoughts from her mind.


	7. 3E 385, Rain's Hand 9

The sun has made an appearance this morning. Gemile sits with her back against a low brick wall, letting her head loll. Martinus is making some attempt at crawling—thrashing his arms around, rolling on his side, spoiling his clothes with grass stains.  
  


"You've got a beetle in your hair, my love." Gemile reaches over to take it out. She inspects its blue-black shell in the light for a moment before setting it on top of the wall to continue its day. "Tinus."  
  


Martinus makes a sound in response.  
  


"Shall I teach you a bit of Old Cyrodilic?"  
  


"Baaaaa."  
  


"Don't be like that—it's quick." Gemile lies down in the grass and lifts him onto her chest. "Say:  _ dum spiro, spero. _ "  
  


Martinus keeps quiet.  
  


"Dum."  
  


"Uuuuu," he grumbles.  
  


"Dum. . .spiro."  
  


"Uuuuuu oooooo."  
  


"Spero."  
  


"Eeeewoo."  
  


"Dum spiro, spero."  
  


"Uuuuuu ssssssoooooo."  
  


Gemile laughs—which jostles the baby, who laughs along happily. She closes her eyes and tries to focus on the warmth of the sunlight, on the weight of Martinus on her chest, to hide it away forever in some safe place in her mind.  
  


He's grown so quickly in a few short months.   
  


Martinus pounds her collar bone with a tiny fist to get her attention.  
  


"Ow," says Gemile, though it didn't hurt, and a sob rises from her chest. She hiccups and sits upright, holding the baby as close as she can. Tinus starts to blubber as well, poor thing. She sometimes wonders whether he knows enough to blame himself.  
  


"Shh, shh, shh," she tries to soothe him through her own tears. "It's not your fault. It's all right. Shhhhhh." She forces herself to breathe in deeply, and out again. Deep breath in. Slow breath out. Martinus senses her calm and quickly settles down himself.  
  


"All right. We're OK." Gemile crosses her legs and sets the baby in her lap. He seems content to stay there, and looks up at her curiously, with eyes as warm and blue as the Corbolo on a clear day. "I hope you know that I love you, Tinus." Martinus cocks his head. "I hope you know that for as long as you live." Tears come to her eyes again, but she pushes them away.  
  


They sit for a while longer. Gemile finds a lone buttercup in the grass and gently drops it on Martinus' nose. He giggles, squishes it in his hands, and then eats it. As expected. Gemile sighs. "You can't keep sticking everything in your mouth. What if that had been something really dangerous?"  
  


Martinus continues to chew on the flower. A bit of petal dribbles from the corner of his mouth.  
  


"Fine, then. Eat whatever you like, wise one." Gemile sinks back into the grass.  
  


The sky is different when she opens her eyes again; orange bleeding into purple. Martinus is fast asleep. She rises slowly with the baby in her arms and begins the walk back to her room, wishing she had worn something warmer.  
  


She spots J'hani, his dark hair done up messily, with a dirty shirt slung over his shoulder and a simple cloth bag in hand.  
  


"Oi! J'hani!"  
  


He glances tiredly in her direction, but livens up when he catches sight of her. Feeling sentimental, Gemile hugs him shortly. He hugs her back in his timid way. Martinus doesn't wake.  
  


"How did your banquet go?" asks J'hani. "You were so troubled when you came back."  
  


Gemile thinks on it. She thinks of herself standing in the door frame with nothing to hold onto except half an apple slice, and nothing to do except fall into bed dead to the world. "I'm. . .sorry about that. I was terribly rude."  
  


"I understand. I thought you must have had some bad news."  
  


"I did." Gemile plays idly with Martinus' hair. "If you like, you can meet me at mine after dinner."  
  


"Ah." J'hani looks himself over, wrinkling his nose. "Of course. My apologies."  
  


"Not what I mean. Just because they don't let me work, that doesn't make me some poncy noble who cracks up when he sees a stain—all I mean is—I'd want to lie and do nothing for a bit, if I were you."  
  


"I suppose that does sound appealing," sighs J'hani, untying his hair so that it falls in waves, barely brushing his shoulders. "After dinner, then."  
  


They part. Gemile lights a lantern when she enters her room, and sets Martinus softly in his cot. She's about to change out of her muddy dress when there's a loud knock at the door. In the time it takes her to button up her bodice again, whoever's outside decides to give the door a kick for good measure. Martinus wakes with a start and begins to howl.  
  


"Di _ vines, _ I'm coming!" Gemile grabs the baby and rushes to the door.   
  


Standing there is Marc, with a bitter scowl on his face and a pewter tray in his hands. "Dinner for  _ madame. _ "  
  


"Thanks," says Gemile coldly, deciding not to pick the low-hanging fruit and tell him not to be a dickhead. "Will you put it on the table? I have my hands full."  
  


"As the lady likes." He sets it down on the table, hard, so that the dishes clatter.  
  


"Marc, don't be a dickhead."  
  


"Then don't be a bitch."  
  


"I'm _ not! _ You just banged about until the baby threw a fit! D'you know how bloody irritating it is to make him stop once he's got going?"  
  


"I—"  
  


"You know what, didn't you tell me the other day that you wanted to hold him? Here's your chance." Gemile holds out Martinus to him, and to her surprise, Marc takes the baby without another word, rocking him a bit more forcefully than Gemile would have done. But Martinus soon calms.  
  


"That's all it takes," says Marc quietly.  
  


"How did you know to do that?"  
  


"I minded babies for a few extra coins when I lived in Daggerfall. It's easy once you know how."  
  


". . .Oh."  
  


"You're welcome," says Marc, handing the baby back.  
  


"Wait, before you go. You speak Bretonic, right?"  
  


" _ De temps en temps. _ "  
  


"'Yes', then? What does Letrangler mean?"  
  


"What?"  
  


"Le. . .Letrangler. Or something."  
  


Marc frowns for a moment, and then lapses into laughter. " _ Étrangler?  _ To strangle?"  
  


"No! That wasn't it. Le something. Letra."  
  


" _ L'etat. _ "  
  


"No."  
  


" _ L. . .étang?  _ Bah, _ 'letra'. . .lettre? L'être? _ "  
  


" _ No. _ "  
  


"Letra. . . _ le tranche—comment diable pourrais-je—létrang—l'etranger? _ Maybe?"  
  


"Yes!"  
  


"Well, give me some context."  
  


"Say that someone calls himself. . .Bendu L'. . .étranger."  
  


"Then Bendu is a bit odd. He's calling himself Bendu the stranger, or Bendu the foreign one."  
  


"Oh."  
  


"I won't ask. I'm sure it's secret business." Marc rolls his eyes.  
  


"It is," Gemile tells him irritably. "But thank you."  
  


" _ De rien. _ You can thank me with that sweet roll."   
  


"Take it. I prefer the cinnamon ones anyway."  
  


Marc snatches it off her tray and leaves.  
  


Sighing, Gemile closes the door behind him, and holds Martinus in one arm as she picks through the tray's contents; saffron rice with a side of tender beef, spiced in the eastern fashion. A small iron ewer of black coffee, and a tall glass of mango juice. She smiles. What a dreadfully Nibenese spread.  
  


There's a glass jar of mashed fruit as well, with a small silver spoon. Gemile sniffs it—banana, maybe with a bit of lime. She'll feed Martinus when he wakes, assuming no one else decides to smash around the place with all the elegance of a drunken cave troll and frighten the poor thing.  
  


She sets the baby down again, pours herself some coffee, and sits down to eat, watching the moon rise through her window. Before long the food is gone. Gemile paces her room for a bit. Someone knocks. She opens the door.  
  


J'hani is there, his hair loose, in simple clothes that look freshly laundered. He smells faintly of the same incense he gave her on her birthday, months ago. "Evening," he says, with a spent smile.  
  


"Hey. Come in." Gemile covertly checks on Martinus as they enter the room—still sound asleep. Thank the Gods.  
  


"Marc was complaining about you earlier."  
  


"'Spoiled bitch', and 'why should she get special treatment', and all that?"  
  


J'hani looks away. "More or less."  
  


"It's because I scolded him. He had to rescue his wounded pride somehow," says Gemile matter-of-factly. "For a little Breton boy he's got the ego of a Heartland lord. Good cook, though."  
  


"Oh, that reminds me." J'hani procures a small wrapped parcel. "I brought a sweet roll, because I am a dull soul with no instinct for gift-giving."  
  


Gemile giggles. "Oh," she says, unwrapping it. "Cinnamon. Thank you."  
  


"My pleasure."  
  


"You know they feed me, though, right?" she grins. "You don't have to bring things every time."  
  


"This is only the second gift I've brought. And the first was your birthday," J'hani replies.   
  


"Fine. I'll stick with 'thank you', then." Gemile sets the sweet roll aside. "Do you want to hear about the other night?"   
  


"If. . .if you would like to tell me."


	8. 3E 385, Rain's Hand 29 (!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild warning for references to sexual assault

Ria clasps her hands and stretches them out before her. The early morning rain has slowed to a drizzle; the birds have started chirping again.  
  


"You know," she says, shooting a sly smile at Gemile, "that J'hani boy's birthday is coming up."  
  


"How do you know that?"  
  


"You know I take a bit of an interest in the study of the stars. Whenever someone enters my orbit, so to speak, I have to know."  
  


Gemile smiles. "Sounds like a load of bollocks."  
  


"If you say so, Sign of the Ritual."  
  


"And? Of course you'd know mine."  
  


Ria laughs—a high, mesmerising sound. "Tell me, then—when is my birthday?"  
  


"I—Well, I—" Gemile feels her face heat up. "I don't have a mind for numbers."  
  


"I know." Ria gives her a squeeze as if to say 'no harm done'. "It's Sun's Dawn 16, not that I expect you to remember."  
  


"Heart's Day."  
  


"Yes! Easy, isn't it? You know Signs of the Ritual have an affinity for healing and repelling the undead? You might try that sometime."  
  


"Try healing? Just pop into a sickhouse and go, 'right, I need to run an experiment'?"  
  


"If you concentrate, you should be able to manifest a healing spell on yourself. _If_ you have Mara's favour, and I think, my darling, that you might." Ria smiles mysteriously. "But—here I am, dancing away from my original point. Regardless of how you may or may not feel about him, the poor boy went out of his way for you on your birthday."  
  


"I didn't ask him to do any of it," Gemile grumbles.  
  


"No, but it's going to send a fairly pointed message if you don't return the favour."  
  


"Who's to say he even cares? Don't Khajiit keep time by the moons, or something?"  
  


"He obviously cares enough to know the date, Gem. It's Second Seed 17. I'm only letting you know." Ria has that bedevilled smile on her face. "17th of Second Seed."  
  


"Pest."  
  


"Well!" blusters Ria. "Remind me not to do you any favours."  
  


They sit in silence.  
  


"You don't speak any Bretonic, do you?" Gemile asks.  
  


". . .No, I'm afraid I'm one of those silly Empire Bretons who only ever learn common Cyrodilic. Why?"  
  


"I met someone at the Emperor's banquet who introduced himself to me as Jauffre. . .L'étranger. Marc—one of the cook boys—he said it meant 'Jauffre the stranger'. And Caula kept tossing him evil looks."  
  


"Hm. That's odd." Ria taps a red nail to her lip. "He gave no other titles?"  
  


"No. But he talked with the Emperor, just as if they'd known each other forever." Gemile tangles a black strand of hair around her finger. "He was there when the Emperor spoke to me. Him and Cosades, for whatever bloody reason."  
  


"Spoke to you alone? What about?"  
  


"You know full well what about," snaps Gemile.  
  


"Right," says Ria. "—and?"  
  


"He says I've got to make a choice. I can. . .take Tinus, and lose my job, and go back to Gold Leaf. . .and he won't get—you know—a title, or any wealth, or a royal education. . ."  
  


"That might very well be a blessing on him," Ria points out. "The life of a prince of the Empire. . ." She shudders. ". . .it must be suffocating."  
  


"Well. Either that, or he said that he and Caula would raise Tinus as their own."  
  


"But. . ." Ria gives her a pained smile. "He's got. . ." she gestures at her own face.  
  


"If you tell me he's got the 'cast of the Niben' about him, on the hand of Arkay—"  
  


"I won't," says Ria, holding up her hands. "But you know what I mean."  
  


Gemile rolls her eyes. "I don't know. That Jauffre said it wouldn't be a problem. So then they'd take him, and I have to go home and—wash my hands of him, for good."  
  


"That's. . .more or less what you wanted, love—isn't it?"  
  


"What—" Gemile turns her head and looks Ria in the eye. There must be something sharp in her gaze; Ria quails. "It's not. . ." She finds herself not on the verge of tears, but with a scream raring in her throat. "It's n-not as easy as all that," she says, forcing herself to breathe. Ria puts an arm around her shoulders. "What I _wanted_ was just. . .not to have. . ."  
  


"I know," says Ria softly.  
  


" _Then,_ you know, once it had happened anyway, I wanted to not be stuck with it. Then I was stuck, and it—" She touches her scar, feeling it cramp beneath her hand. "— _hurt_ , a-and they thought—you know, you were there. They thought I was—"  
  


Ria holds her tighter. "I know, Gem."  
  


"—right. So I was thinking about not dying. Silmane. Not dying; that's what I was thinking about. I haven't even been on my feet for a month."  
  


"So what do you want?"  
  


Gemile laughs and wipes at her wet cheeks. "I want to be alive, and I want to walk and run and not to hurt. Tinus—Tinus is—" She runs a frustrated hand through her hair. "He's there."  
  


"Do you think. . ." Ria sighs, lost for words. "I mean, do you think you love him?"  
  


"Sod off. Love him." She points across the courtyard. "That's my room there. I can see him behind the window. That's that nurse. D'you see?"  
  


"I see, dearest."  
  


"My heart hurts as if he's on the other end of bloody Nirn. I can _see_ him."  
  


"It sounds like you can't well give him up, then."  
  


Gemile buries her face in her hands. Her body limping and aching and constantly, constantly tired, her stupid head full of horrid thoughts, all those muddled dreamlike nights, that little baby with his blue eyes and his small scavenging hands. "I h—I have a headache. I have such a headache, Ria."  
  


"I'm here with you," says Ria.  
  


"Hmm."  
  


"It's cold up here. Do you want my scarf?" Without waiting for a reply, Ria shrugs off the scarf and throws it over Gemile.  
  


"I hear your earrings," murmurs Gemile.  
  


Ria laughs and shakes her head about, making all her jewels chime.


	9. 3E 385, Second Seed 17

Filled with apprehension, Gemile knocks on the door to the male servants' quarters. Almost immediately, a stocky half-dressed dark elf answers it, scratching at the back of his neck, and darts out of sight when he sees her. "J'hani! Your girl's here!" she hears him rasp. Oblivion swallow her.  
  


J'hani himself comes to the door moments later in a rumpled undershirt and trousers. ". . .Good morning, Gemile."  
  


"There's no time. You need to come with me."  
  


"Oh—" J'hani glances back inside. "Could I get dressed?"  
  


"Hurry."  
  


Hurry he does. Gemile has counted sixty-four Reman Cyrodiils in her head when he comes back, with his boots poorly laced, still doing up the final button on his shirt. "All right," he says. "Where to?"  
  


They sprint toward the main building and wind up the staircase to the White-Gold Tower. J'hani breathes out sharply when they enter the Emperor's wing, but says nothing.  
  


Finally they reach the royal antechambers—where the Emperor spends his mornings in religious meditation. The smallest one is blocked by a dark, sleek door. Gemile presses her ear to the keyhole. Nothing.  
  


She takes a small keyring from her belt and unlocks the door. It glides inward without a sound; the Emperor maintains this room personally.  
  


The candles from the dawn prayer are still lit. Perfect.  
  


"Gemile, please tell me that we aren't in the Emperor's oratory."  
  


"OK, we have to do this quick," says Gemile, ignoring him.  
  


J'hani gives her a strange look. "W-what?"  
  


She takes the parcel from under her arm and holds it out. "This?" The red kerchief has come undone a bit, but its contents are secure. "Happy birthday. Right?"  
  


"Happy—oh!" J'hani runs a hand through his hair with a nervous laugh. "Of course."  
  


"What, you reckoned I'd called you up here for a quick tryst on the Emperor's holiest floor? I'm not mad."  
  


This time Gemile can just barely make out the hint of a red flush on his features. She shakes her head.  
  


J'hani puts his face in his hands. "I've only been awake for twenty minutes. You appeared at my door to whisk me away to gods-know-where, I—I—"  
  


"Listen, we can make this awkward later. Uriel and his sons have already done the dawn prayer, but Caula wakes up later because of her illness. She'll be here in less than an hour's time. So. Again: happy birthday." Gemile holds out the parcel again, giving it a shake for emphasis.  
  


"Thank you," says J'hani, with some effort. He unknots the red wrap with gentle hands. "I thought you were close with the Empress?" he asks as he works.  
  


"Well, yeah, but I'd rather avoid running into her here. I'm still a servant—a trespassing servant at that. You'd be much worse off than I would, actually. But it's beautiful in here, isn't it?"  
  


"That it is." J'hani has finished with the parcel, and holds the mantle at arm's length. A lovely thing, if she says so herself: thickly-woven satin deep blue on the outside, with a golden lining that shines like a gemstone in direct light.  
  


"Oh, it's. . .I. . .you—where did you even _get_ such a thing? Not in the Imperial City, surely."  
  


"I wrote my father. He has merchant connections. D'you like it?"  
  


"It's wonderful. Wonderful." He slips it on with a delighted smile and watches the fabric move in the candlelight.  
  


"You could wear it the other way, with the gold on the outside, but. . .better not here."  
  


J'hani doesn't seem to be paying attention, preferring instead to twirl and preen.  
  


"Oi," says Gemile.  
  


"Hm?"  
  


"I said you're better off not wearing it the other way in here."  
  


His jaw drops. "It wears the other way?" He wastes no time in turning the mantle inside out to reveal the shimmering lining, now blindingly gold. "Gem, it's beautiful," he says, scooping her into a hug that lifts her several inches off the ground. J'hani sets her down again. "Gemile, I mean."  
  


"Just Gem is OK."  
  


"Gem," he grins.


	10. 3E 386, Sun's Dawn 19 (!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief warning here for...maybe "child endangerment" is the best term?? i'm going to put a summary at the end, to be on the safe side

Tinus is trekking across the bed. Gemile reaches out and touches the tip of his nose—he catches her finger and closes his small hands around it. Sometimes she marvels to see exactly how small his hands are. Each of his fingernails is the size of a rice grain.  
  


On a whim, she begins to withdraw her hand—Tinus makes a loud noise and pulls it back with all the strength of a one-year-old.  
  


"Have it your way, then," she tells him. He babbles his approval.  
  


Martinus is a lovely child. His eyes have settled—not into Uriel's dull blue, but a pale, icelike colour that must belong to her father. The hard eyes of Marcus Caridenius are forgiving and curious in Tinus' soft brown face.   
  


Gemile smooths his dark hair—it's peaking out everywhere now and seems never to want to lie flat. J'hani even carved a fine little comb and brought it to her quarters, laughing, on Tinus' first birthday.  
  


The boy stares at her seriously, his wispy brows fixed in a frown. She can almost make out the shape of her own mouth in his curving upper lip.  
  


"Bula," he says, crawling toward the edge of the bed. Gemile hurries to grab hold of him and set him down on the floor.  
  


" _ Ambulā, _ " she says, sitting on the floor herself. "I'm right here,  _ carissime _ ."  
  


Tinus gets to his feet, slowly. He's a cautious boy, and he's damned clever—before he'll walk, he'll pretend to fall over, just to see whether his mama will catch him. So he stumbles as he rises, and Gemile catches him.   
  


Tinus looks around the room. "Jani," he pouts.  
  


"He's not here, love," says Gemile. " _ Vīsne ambulāre? _ "  
  


"Hmm. . .mm-hm." The boy nods. If J'hani were here, Tinus would totter back and forth between two sets of open arms, proud as a peacock under J'hani's praise. As it stands, he'll have to make do with a wall.  
  


Gemile shuffles back a ways, giving him a few feet to walk. Tinus braces both his hands on her leg and tries to push her farther away.  
  


_ " En, _ _"_ laughs Gemile, moving as he directs. "Someone's terribly sure of himself."  
  


She holds her breath as Tinus makes his way back to the wall, expecting a fall and a scraped elbow and half an hour's tantrum—but he clears the distance, and then turns around and walks back into her arms with the same ease.  
  


"Good on you," she says, hugging him tightly. Tinus giggles and bats her long hair away as it falls into his face. "Well done, love. You're getting so good at this!"  
  


Someone clears his throat nearby. Gemile startles and looks up—a young Bladesman is in the doorway, shuffling his feet. Did she not hear him knock? Did he let himself in? "Beg pardon," he says. "I believe the emperor requires your presence."  
  


Gemile stifles a sigh. "All right. Just as soon as J'hani is here. . ."  
  


"He wants, er. He'd like you to bring the baby." The young man in the doorway rubs at his nose and looks away.  
  


". . .all right," says Gemile. "Did he say anything else?"  
  


"Nothing, only to come in all haste." The Bladesman salutes and goes on his brisk way.  
  


Gemile sets Tinus back on the bed; he sits himself proudly upright against the headboard. She rummages through her beaten-down armoire for an overcoat. She steps into a woollen underskirt as well, under her dress, and picks out a soft pair of fur-lined boots; the winter has never quite made its exit by Sun's Dawn, and the trip from the servant's quarters to the palace proper is always chilly.  
  


She takes Tinus in her arms again, lifting him high, with a flourish, and bringing him level with her chest again. He laughs, as he always does, pointing excitedly at the ceiling. "Vaaaa," he shrills. "Vwaa!"  
  


" _ Volā, _ " Gemile agrees. "You flew right up to Aetherius."  
  


"Ferius." Tinus points again.  
  


"Very good. Now you've got to wear something becoming,  _ carissime.  _ Put up your arms."  
  


The weather is exactly as cold as she feared, the sun bright and cold in the sky. Gemile shivers and pulls Tinus' blanket tighter around him.  
  


"Gem.  _ Gem. _ " A hand on her shoulder stops Gemile in her tracks.  
  


"J'hani. Thank the Divines," she grins.  
  


J'hani draws her into a gentle hug. "What is this I hear about a summons from Uriel? And. . ." Finally, he notices Tinus. He holds out his hand, and Tinus solemnly grabs two of J'hani's fingers and shakes them.  
  


"Jani," says Tinus.  
  


"Martinus," says J'hani.  
  


Tinus, remembering his accomplishment, starts to chatter. "Jani!" he cries. " _Bulavī!_ _Bulavī tam bene!"  
  
_

"Wow," says J'hani earnestly. "I'm sure your mother is very proud."  
  


Tinus beams and continues to ramble. J'hani gives Gemile a questioning look—is this baby nonsense or Old Cyrodilic?  
  


"Just baby nonsense," she says, hefting Tinus higher in her arms. J'hani nods and holds a brief nonsense conversation with Tinus—that is, Tinus will make whatever noises he pleases and J'hani will reply in good Cyrodilic, as if the boy had made a compelling argument. She adores it.  
  


She smiles so broadly her eyes fill with tears.  
  


"Let me take him," J'hani offers, easing the baby from her hands. "Gem, don't cry."  
  


"Would you walk with me? I'm already late."  
  


"Of course."  
  


"I have the most awful feeling I know what this is about." Gemile is trying and failing to calm her breathing. "And the Empress has taken ill again. . ."  
  


"So, what are you expecting the Emperor will do?" he asks.  
  


Before Gemile can answer, someone comes running, leather sandals beating loudly on the tile. Ria, still in a stained work apron, with her fine hair flying. She nearly bowls J'hani off his feet, but she doesn't seem to care. Her heavy eye makeup has worn off in the rain and she looks as though she hasn't slept in the last era.  
  


"Gem," she says, swallowing hard, panting, "I can—I can take him. I can get him out of here, the kid, you know what a good hand I am at Illusion. They'll never see me, darling, we'll meet in Cheydinhal, I could—"  
  


"Ria, Ria, Ria, hang on." Gemile looks into her wide blue eyes. "They're—? You're sure?"  
  


"Wia!" cries Tinus.   
  


"Good morning, sweetling." Ria grins tiredly and pinches his cheeks. Tinus makes a sound of protest.  
  


Chuckling, Ria takes a deep breath. "You can give him to me, _ "  _ she says pleasantly, " _ now,  _ before the guards catch wind, or you can go in there and lose your son."  
  


Gemile bites her lip.  
  


"Gem," says Ria. "You'll regret it. Look at him. You know it's polite to shake a lady's hand," she adds, for Tinus' benefit. He giggles and grabs her taloned fingers, though he can't have understood a word of what she said. "Thank you kindly, young master Caridenius."  
  


"What are we going to do against the Blades, Silmane? You think the Emperor's going to sit around with his thumb up his arse while there's a threat to his rule still alive?"  
  


Ria reaches out and tucks Gemile's hair behind her ear. "You can turn me aside, but I want you to know that this is your only chance. I want to see that you understand that."  
  


"I. . ." Gemile thinks. Surely the worst the Emperor will do is throw her and Tinus out. She'd lose her income, but what of that? It's time she went back to Gold Leaf. It's time her family should meet her son. "I trust in the gods."  
  


Ria's expression is wild for a moment. "If you go in there, dearest, sweetest, they—are—going—to—take—Tinus."  
  


"Where are you getting all of this?" asks Gemile. "From Tharn?"  
  


"You don't believe me. Let the gods make the right decision, then." Ria walks away without another wasted word.  
  


Gemile shivers. "Shall we?"  
  


J'hani follows her silently. Tinus is tactful enough to keep quiet, as well.  
  


They come to the palace stairs. Gemile doesn't notice her own tears until J'hani touches a plain, neat handkerchief to the back of her hand. She takes it with her free hand, but makes no effort to clean herself up.  
  


One of the door guards nods in J'hani's direction. "You need to go, cat."  
  


"He'll come with me," Gemile finds herself saying, in a faraway voice, "or I'll dash the baby's head on these stairs."  
  


"—what?" The other guard, younger and ruddier in his face, looks at her with an expression of astonishment.  
  


Before anyone has understood what, exactly, she means to do, Gemile takes Tinus from J'hani's arms. He chortles to have his mama's attention and reaches out for her. She feels such a shock of guilt and terror that she staggers.  
  


_ "No," _ bellows the first guard, an older man, and takes her by the arm—hard; she'll bruise. "Go."  
  


Gemile drags her feet up the castle stairs. J'hani follows her. The guards let him go.  
  


"Mad bitch," murmurs the younger guard. He doesn't seem to mean it as an insult: his voice is shaking.  
  


"Gem," calls J'hani behind her. His pupils are so slit, they're nearly invisible. He's angry, she notes, dully—worse than she's ever seen him. His breaths are shallow. He opens his mouth, his lip quivers, but he decides against whatever he intended to say. Instead, sighing, he closes her and Martinus in his arms.  
  


"I don't know what's wrong with me," she says. "D'you think I'm mad, J'hani?"  
  


"You are. . ." J'hani reaches out and touches Tinus' chest, reassuring himself. Tinus tries to steal the ring from J'hani's little finger, and, failing that, to bite it. "You've been in pain." He takes a shaky breath.  


"You take him," says Gemile, hollowly, but herself.  
  


"Are you certain?"  
  


"Please."  
  


They round the corner into the smallest audience hall. Uriel is there, as expected, not on his throne, but conversing with a young Breton in dark robes.  
  


"I know you," says Gemile.  
  


The Breton turns to her. "Jauffre is the name, yes."  
  


Gemile gives the Emperor a single disinterested nod. "Your Majesty."  
  


"You've heard of our decision, then," says Uriel, with a wan smile.  
  


"I—wait." Gemile folds her arms, but the motion is more like hugging herself. "I thought—you were going to have me decide, your Majesty?"  
  


"Now," Uriel frowns. His mousy hair has lost most of its colour. "Time flies from us, as ever, on the wings of the dragon god." He touches his collar, maybe feeling for an amulet beneath all his jewels. "I'm afraid your time has escaped you."  
  


"I convinced his Majesty of the potential uses of another heir of the Dragon blood," explains Jauffre, as if she had ought to be thankful.  
  


"But I—maybe I want to decide now."  
  


"We all may want," says Uriel. "The choice is no longer yours."  
  


"And if I—if I leave now? If I go?"  
  


"You, Gemile, are most welcome to leave. In fact," says Uriel, pausing to examine his fingernails, "I encourage it. But I cannot, in the end, allow an heir of my blood to pass from me."  
  


Gemile takes a step back.  
  


"Don't," suggests Jauffre. "It will be a headache for us, and far worse for you. You—Khajiit," he says, motioning for J'hani to come closer. "Give him to me."  
  


J'hani takes a hesitant step forward and allows Jauffre to pluck Martinus from his arms.  
  


"I'd ask that you quit my city by Morndas at the latest. Gods keep you, Gemile." Uriel purses his lips and dismisses her with a gesture.  


* * *

"You can go, you know. I won't do myself in the moment you turn around."  
  


J'hani says nothing. He puts a tentative hand on her arm and she rips it away like he's burned her.  
  


Gemile's eye falls on Tinus' cot. All her energy goes. "J'hani."  
  


"Mm?"  
  


"Will you come and find me tomorrow, please? Will you tell the cooks and everyone not to come by, either, I can't today. I can't today." She finds her teeth chattering. "I j—I can't, today, I can't, I can't."   
  


Gemile sits on the edge of the bed. J'hani takes a step toward her, but thinks better of it, shooting her a conflicted smile and closing the door behind him as he goes.  
  


She nestles into bed with every intention of staying there forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief summary: Gemile and Martinus (now a year old) are summoned by the Emperor. Ria intercepts them on the way to warn Gemile that Uriel is intending to take the boy. Gemile, thinking that the worst Uriel could do is to kick her and Martinus out, goes in anyway. Uriel and Jauffre are there; Uriel explains that he wants another 'heir of his blood' within reach, and won't allow her to leave with the baby. Jauffre takes Martinus away, and Gemile is given a week to leave the palace.


	11. 3E 386, Sun's Dawn 20

The stupid trunk won't shut. Someone came for the baby's clothes in the night, and the armoire, and all the Emperor's other gifts. Even J'hani's comb. It couldn't be a clearer ‘get out of my palace’ if the man himself barged in and forced her out at knifepoint.  
  


Talin runs a hand through his black curls. "So are you all right, Gem?"  
  


A million sharp responses come to mind, but she's too exhausted to be snippy, and she can't have him storm off again. "Talin, let's focus on this."  
  


"If you say so. Where's J'hani?"  
  


"Extra shift. Er, visiting royals, or something," she mumbles. "Hall's got to sparkle."  
  


"Oh."  
  


Gemile sits on the lid of the trunk, but it won't close the last finger's-breadth.  
  


"You're too light," says Talin dismissively. "Let me try." He takes a running start and leaps arse-first onto the lid, which finally clacks shut. Gemile quickly does up the latch.  
  


"There. Di _vines._ "  
  


Talin sighs. "Right. Well, that's done."  
  


"Yeah."  
  


"Right."  
  


"Well, th—" Gemile begins.  
  


"One other—" Talin says at the same time.  
  


Gemile raises her eyebrows at him.  
  


"Oh, I—wanted to. . .well. . .if you're going to be heading up to Cheydinhal alone. . .I thought you should have this." Talin fumbles for the dagger on his belt, unfastens it and holds it out to her, sheath and all.  
  


"Talin, don't be like this. I'm not dying, I'm taking a carriage ride. I've done it loads of times."  
  


"Only takes one time, my dad says. Never take these things for granted. Go on," he says, "it's yours. It's white steel with Stahlrim laid into the spine."  
  


"I don't know what that is, but it sounds expensive."  
  


"Please."  
  


"Absolutely not. That thing is worth more than my family's estate." Gemile sighs. "Leave me rest, all right?"  
  


If he says something in response, she doesn't register it.

* * *

"I'm leaving as well, just to let you know." J'hani leans back against the trunk—massive thing, it comes up to his waist.  
  


"Why? Have you got a chip on your shoulder on my behalf now?"  
  


"I. . . would not say that."  
  


"Then what?"   
  


J'hani considers his answer for a long while. "I would like to be able to save up a pension at some point. My mother can take care of herself, but she needn't. And I am so tired of taking orders from Lord Batus."  
  


"That warty Colovian? He's no lord."  
  


"No, he isn't. But he will not abide us calling him 'master'. Could you guess why?"  
  


"Master Bat—oh," Gemile feels herself grin for the first time in days. "You're having me on."  
  


"I am deadly serious."  
  


"Why doesn't he _change_ it?"  
  


"I suppose he never counted on being a 'master' to anyone, when he was younger."  
  


Colovians are proud of their names, even when they might double as characters in off-colour tavern jokes. Gemile thinks of this Batus, knock-kneed, in line at a census office. She laughs helplessly. J'hani pushes off from the trunk and sits down beside her.  
  


"You should come with me," says Gemile, once her laughter has subsided enough.  
  


"Come with you. . .where?"  
  


"To Gold Leaf! My father could maybe set you up with a merchant's post! And if not, Cheydinhal's nearby. Plenty of work."  
  


". . .There are also a lot of Dunmer in Cheydinhal."  
  


"And?"  
  


"Dunmer do not, as a rule, embrace Khajiit with open arms."  
  


"Oh, they hate everyone. Nibenese, Heartlanders, Nords. Other Dunmer. And. . ." Gemile laces her fingers together. "Well, I mean, there's no slavery here, if that's your worry."   
  


"My worry is that my mother and I will end up worse than we began."  
  


"Well, then—why even leave if you don't want to take the risk at all? I'm offering to help!"  
  


J'hani is quiet for a while.  
  


"Gemile," he finally says, "I can't do that. I can't. . .follow at your heels. I can't risk everything on the assumption that your family will simply settle me."  
  


"But they will!"  
  


"You can only speak for yourself."  
  


Gemile shakes her head. "Tinus and now you. My life is coming up wonderfully, isn't it." She instantly feels childish, and a deep embarrassment seizes her, but she doesn't take it back.  
  


"That isn't fair. Gemile, if I could step on that carriage with you and have not a care in the world where I end up, or what becomes of me, I would do it. But I haven't only myself to think about."  
  


"So I'm selfish, is that it? No," Gemile interrupts herself, standing. J'hani stands, too. "No, you're right. I'm not being fair. I—hope you write me. It'll be easy. Gold Leaf Moor's not very big at all, and you know my family name." Her short laugh turns into a sob.  
  


He hugs her tightly.


	12. 3E 386, Sun's Dawn 24 (!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for violence! there's a summary at the end

The wooden cart leaps and shudders and bounces every time it traverses so much as a rat dropping. Gemile wishes for one of her shawls to fold up and use as a cushion, but if that trunk springs open here, she doesn't trust the driver—an old, grim-faced high elf—to help shut the blasted thing again.  
  


"Are we still on the Blue Road?" she asks.  
  


"Yes," says the driver, tossing about her short white hair. "Blue Road continues to Cheydinhal. From there we stop for supplies and go south."   
  


"Will it be much longer?"  
  


"Can you see Cheydinhal?"  
  


". . .No."  
  


"Then yes."  
  


"But we've been on the road for three days already! I could swear it didn't take this long the last time."  
  


The elf woman keeps silent, as she probably will for the rest of the day.  
  


Mercy under the eyes of Arkay. She's going to lose her mind, here, on this cart, beaten down by the winter sun and bruised to Oblivion by this coarse wooden bench.  
  


"Hm," says the old elf at last. "That will be trouble."   
  


Gemile squints to see what she's looking at; a pair of Imperial guards on horseback. "What are they here for?"  
  


No answer. But the guards are already approaching, spurring their horses to block the cart.  
  


"Halt, citizens! By the order of the Emperor, there's now a toll on this portion of the Blue Road," says one of the guards—a Heartlander, from the sound of her.  
  


"Yeah," the other guard—a dark elf?—puts in. "Pay up." He's missing the shoulder piece of his armour.  
  


"Where's your pauldron, sir?" asks Gemile.  
  


"Oh, I, uh—"  
  


The Heartlander guard smiles smarmily as she answers for him. "Lost on the job. We don't get replacements 'til First Seed."  
  


"Fifty drakes a head," the dark elf rasps.  
  


"’Drakes’," says the carriage driver disdainfully. "What, did they pluck you out of the ashlands?"  
  


"Maybe. Problem?"  
  


"No, none at all. Let me just," she bends over, presumably to take the money from her purse, and Gemile blinks and the dark elf guard goes limp and slides sideways off the horse. The driver is brandishing a green, wicked shortsword with a bright bloody edge.  
  


The Heartlander guard bellows and throws fire at her. Terrified, the carriage horse trumpets loudly and runs off—with such a start that Gemile is knocked headfirst into her trunk, and both catapult off the back of the carriage. She feels a stupid pang of despair when the trunk strikes the ground and bursts wide open.  
  


The Heartlander—not guard, but brigand—bears on her, and her white horse threatens to trample Gemile, who scrambles to get out of the way. "Not too late to pay up," she cackles. "Yes, it is, actually. Your things'll be worth more than fifty pieces."  
  


Gemile hooks her fingers in the earth and drags herself over the grass. Something sparkles in the corner of her vision and she crawls desperately toward it, hoping for a mirror shard or a vegetable knife. She grabs it without looking, and her fingers close around what feels like the hilt of a long dagger. The guard spurs her horse to a trot—the great beast is standing over Gemile now, blotting out the sun. She swings about her with the dagger, barely aware what she's doing, only wanting to escape those trampling hooves.   
  


She strikes something hard.  
  


The horse makes an awful, ear-splitting noise, and falls like a great tree, just beside Gemile, pinning her to the ground by her long hair.  
  


Leaving the injured horse for what it is, the bandit woman circles around and watches as Gemile writhes, trying to pull her hair free.  
  


"Well," she says slowly, drawing her sword. "Now you'll have to pay for my mount."   
  


And she drives her sword through Gemile's foot, all the way through, and twists it, seeming to enjoy the crunch and snap of bones and tendons.  
  


Gemile screams at the top of her lungs. Everything is dark behind her eyes—the bandit woman's voice comes closer, and she screams louder and swings the dagger again—  
  


 _"Bitch,"_ spits the bandit woman, and groans long and low. Gemile squints. The woman is holding one of her hands close as a red stain snakes down the front of her armor. She runs for the forest, abandoning the Blue Road. Gemile vomits, fisting her hands in the dewy grass, and 

* * *

"Lift with your back!"  
  


"Oh, Bashha, don't say that. He'll rupture something. Tell him to use his legs."  
  


"It only has to come an inch off the ground. If he can't handle that. . ."  
  


"Hey, hey, hey. I'll count down, all right? One, two—"  
  


"Who needs a count?"  
  


"Floor's yours, big guy."  
  


Gemile cracks one eye. The sun is blinding.  
  


"Lor, Lor, Lor, she's waking up."  
  


"I'm already awake," Gemile tells the disembodied voices irritably. It comes out very quiet and sort of slurred. She tries to move, and it's as if there are glass shards in her leg. She screams.  
  


"That should probably come out," says a man's voice urgently.  
  


"Hey, hey, hey, don't cry." Someone's rough hands take hold of her face. "Can you open your eyes?"  
  


She does, and she can't bite back a panicked cry. There's. . .a blade in her foot. And it _hurts_ —everything feels broken inside it—until a flash of light descends on her and the pain is just bearable. _Mara's favour,_ says Ria in the back of her mind.  
  


"Don't look at it, all right?" Gently, the hands steer her face away from the wreckage. Instead Gemile finds herself looking into the golden eyes of an Orc woman. "Hey," says the woman. "Name's Bashha gra-Khaza. Who are you?"  
  


"Gemile," sniffs Gemile. "I'm never going to walk again, am I, and I don't have anyone to take care of me, I. . ." Her words and thoughts both become indistinct. She weeps like a child. Bashha holds Gemile in her warm, powerful arms.  
  


"Gemile," says Bashha over and over, rocking her gently, "we have a healer, we have a healer, you'll be fine. Lor." Another Orc comes into view, though Bashha is careful not to let Gemile move her head. "This is Lorbulkhar. Lor for short. He's the best healer in our neck of Valenwood."  
  


"Afternoon, miss," says Lor, with a shy, tusky smile. "How did you come to be out here?"  
  


"I was," Gemile swallows, "I was on my way to Cheydinhal on the Blue Road. In a carriage. We got held up by two brigands pretending they were guards. The driver killed one, and then the carriage horse ran off and I was alone with the other one and the horse fell on top of me and I swung at her and I—"  
  


"Shh," says Bashha. "No need to panic. You're safe. I promise."  
  


Lor frowns sympathetically. "These were some sadistic bandits." He folds his hands.   
  


"Lor," says Bashha impatiently.  
  


"Right! Right, of course. Er. That sword needs to. . .not be where it is, Gemile."  
  


Gemile's stomach drops when she realises his meaning. Bashha fishes a bit of scrap fabric from the trunk for her to bite on, but it doesn't help the searing pain, the feeling of bone splinters grating. She screams and screams and screams until Lor thinks to cast a numbing charm, and then she coughs—her throat is raw.  
  


"So what happened to the bandit? Spatters of blood, but no corpse." A third voice. "Well, one, but you didn't off this one, right?"  
  


"Morshnag _,_ " snaps Bashha.   
  


Gemile shrugs as best she can, wiping a trail of drool from her cheek. "I found a dagger, I think. I don't know what I did with it."  
  


"Then you're the one who slashed this horse's leg? You?"  
  


Bashha grinds her teeth. "Morshnag, so help me—"  
  


"Wait," says the voice of Morshnag. He steps into Gemile's line of sight, dangling Talin's dagger in front of her. "Was _this_ your blade?"  
  


Even Bashha's eyes widen for a moment. "Is that Stahlrim?"  
  


Gemile nods. "I think so. It was a gift from a friend. He must have snuck it into my trunk."  
  


"Well, damn," says Morshnag, eyeing the dagger. He plucks a hair from his head and drops it onto the blade; it flies apart in two halves the instant it touches the edge. He whistles long and low. "Some dagger, kid."  
  


"I'm twenty," Gemile finds herself sulking.  
  


"Huh." Morshnag searches her face. "Dunno if I'd have said older or younger."  
  


"Lor, how's the foot coming?"  
  


"Bash," says Lor, "this is a mess. This is at least a few hours' work."  
  


Bashha frowns for a moment, before her expression relaxes into a half-smile directed at Gemile. "That's fine. It's still early."

* * *

Gemile wakes to the crunching of gravel under wooden carriage wheels and startles awake.   
  


"Whoa, go easy," says Morshnag, patting her on the shoulder. "You're OK."  
  


Lor waves from the opposite bench. "Do you remember what happened?"   
  


"I think so." Gemile plucks at her clothes; an oversized cotton shirt and leggings, and a worn black boot. Her left foot is bare and covered with a cloth wrap.  
  


"Bashha put you in those. They're Lor's since he's the scrawniest."  
  


Gemile’s stomach turns. “I wish you hadn’t,” she says.   
  


“Sorry,” says Bashha from the front seat. “Your things were bloody.”  
  


She doesn’t want to say something ungrateful and be left by the side of the road, so Gemile bites her tongue as her skin crawls and her mouth fills with acid. She sees herself in her mind, battered and limp, and someone wrestling her limbs into someone’s great shirt—as if she were a doll. “. . .OK,” she manages.  
  


"Do they, er. . .” Lor clears his throat. “Do they fit all right?"  
  


"Yes," says Gemile flatly, although they don't. "Thank you. Where are we going?"  
  


"To Cheydinhal," calls Bashha. "That was your stop, wasn't it?"  
  


"Oh. Yes. Where's my trunk?"  
  


"Safe and sound," grins Morshnag, pointing at the largest of an array of boxes and crates in the back.  
  


"Can I offer you some water?" Lor extends a battered water-skin.  
  


"Please," says Gemile, emptying the thing in a few gulps. Then she puts her face in her hands.  
  


"Hey, don't start that again. Come on, what more do you want?" jokes Morshnag, uncomfortably.  
  


"Thank you. I'm sorry—I _am_ grateful," she blubbers. "I'm only thinking. . .I could have just lain there and lain there. If no one had come by."  
  


"If not us, someone would have. It's a busy road," says Lor.  
  


"Might not have stopped, though," adds Morshnag.  
  


"Mor."  
  


"What? She’s not a kid." Morshnag looks Gemile in the eye. "I can be upfront."  
  


They sit in silence. Gemile watches the road pass them by. The sun is at its peak.   
  


"Did it really take hours?" she asks.  
  


Lor grimaces. "About six and a half, but we got you on the cart halfway through. It's a couple hours past noon, now. You actually healed a bit of it yourself, the first time you woke up. Do you remember that?"  
  


"No," says Gemile honestly. "I've never been a good hand at magic."  
  


"Strange, because it was a pretty formidable spell."  
  


"But my foot, is there still a. . .I mean, is it, can I—?"  
  


"Try." Lor holds out a hand and Gemile takes it for support as she tries to stand. Something squelches horribly in her footwrap—she shrieks and drops back down onto the bench.  
  


Morshnag roars with laughter. Lor grins apologetically. "That was the poultice I made to keep it from infecting. Cairn bolete and dragon's tongue. Very squishy. Try it again, it's OK."  
  


Glaring, Gemile takes his outstretched hand again and squeezes it tightly, the memory of her mangled foot still fresh. She struggles to stand. Gingerly, she tests the weight on her foot and takes a little forward step before moving back. She rolls her ankle. Nothing hurts. She smiles in Lor’s direction. "Thank you."  
  


"Hey, my pleasure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief summary: While travelling home to Gold Leaf Moor along the Blue Road, Gemile is accosted by bandits. She manages to ward them off using Talin's dagger (which he snuck into her trunk). She's found by three Orcs: Bashha gra-Khaza, Lorbulkhar and Morshnag, who heal her injuries and take her the rest of the way to Cheydinhal.


	13. 3E 386, Sun's Dawn 26 (!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally the caridenii make their appearance!! brief warning for references to pregnancy and...gemile's father being a piece of work

Breathing hard and with the sweat cooling in her neck, Gemile pounds on the door to her family's house. The trunk is behind her; she's knotted one of her belts around the handle and dragged it along, as if it were a dog. Or a dead bear, for the weight of it.  
  


"All right, all right," calls Tatianus irritably. " _Patientia._ " But his eyes go wide when he catches sight of her, and his hand falls from the door-handle. He seizes her in both arms and lifts her clear off the ground.  
  


"I like your moustache," says Gemile, when he's set her down, and she can breathe again.  
  


"You think this is funny, do you?" Tatianus wipes fiercely at his eyes with a white sleeve. "What are you doing here, Gem?"  
  


"That's a very long story. Can I come in?"  
  


"Of course—of course! I'll take that beastly trunk into the other wing." He ushers her inside, then takes up the trunk with a loud grunt.  
  


Gemile sits down in the living room. Just the same as when she left. Mama and Papa don't often redecorate.  
  


"All right," says Tatianus, emerging from the bedroom wing. "Pray, tell."  
  


"Where's Mama?"  
  


"They're shopping. Mama finally wants to change the curtains. But don't try to change the subject." Tatianus runs an agitated hand through his hair. "We haven't heard from you in such a while! Tell me you're on leave, and the Emperor didn't pack you off. He didn't, did he?"  
  


Gemile sighs, deeper than she thinks she's ever sighed. "I didn't want to put all this in a letter."  
  


"Well, you're here now. Out with it."

* * *

" _Avicella._ . ." Tatianus shakes his head at her, utterly at a loss.  
  


"I did tell you. I told you you weren't going to believe me."  
  


"What—what you're trying to tell me is that the Emperor. . .that you. . ." He turns his face away.  
  


"Don't," she pleads.  
  


"Sorry," mumbles Tatianus, and looks her squarely in the eye. "Why 'Martinus'?"  
  


"I wasn't thinking very hard. I was sleeping most of the time. I suppose, just—it made it easier."  
  


"And you gave him up?"  
  


She shoves him. "You don't understand."  
  


"Gem," he sighs, "—don't—I don't know why you'd ever make up such a story, but. . .you're asking me to suspend my disbelief higher than the White-Gold Tower."  
  


"Well—look." Gemile hoists up Lor's shirt. "They had to cut him out of me."  
  


Tatianus winces. "That's ugly."  
  


"Bloody right it is."  
  


"Put your shirt back. I feel ill."  
  


"I'm so sorry," she snaps. "I'm _so_ sorry you're ill. _I_ nearly _died,_ but never mind."  
  


"I want to hear what Mama and Papa have to say. We'll wait until they return, all right?"  
  


"Are you joking? You saw the scar and you still—?"  
  


Tatianus stands, dusting himself off. "I'll believe that you—bore a child. I. . .will. . .put aside my own feelings, but I believe you. For all the rest, _avicella mea,_ I need a second opinion and a strong coffee. Speaking of which. Do you fancy a cup?"  
  


"Eyes of Arkay. I want two."  
  


He grins and disappears into the kitchen, returning with two steaming porcelain cups. "Start with the one. You do still take it black?"  
  


She only scoffs. Tatianus smiles as if he'd expected nothing less.   
  


"So," he begins.  
  


"How's Nadinandriah?" Gemile breaks in.  
  


"Ah." Tatianus' eyes light up for a moment. "Nadi. . .she's. . .well," he takes a long sip of his coffee. "We're breaking off the engagement."  
  


"Again?"  
  


"She wants me to move to Falinesti with her!"  
  


"And you won't go," says Gemile.  
  


"I want to see the world while I'm young, _avicella_ . While my body still does the things I ask it! Nadi. . ." Tatianus puts his coffee aside and leans back, folding his hands behind his head. "I love her. But. . .she has so many years of life left to her. She has all the time in the world."  
  


"You're not dying, Tati."  
  


"But that's not the point. I was thinking—in fifty years I'm going to be old and grey and she'll have left me for another elf. Or she'll wait until I die and take my money."  
  


"She doesn't _need_ your—"  
  


"And I wouldn't hold it against her. I would lose the ability to keep up."  
  


"If you keep stringing her along," points out Gemile, "she'll leave you long before then. Stop whinging and take the time you have."  
  


Tatianus gives her a smiling sigh. She knows what he means by it— _you're right, but I'm going to whinge anyway._ "Heartless. Heartless Gemile, who yet stands at the precipice of all life's wonders."  
  


"You are twenty-six."   
  


"Twenty-seven _,_ thank you."  
  


Gemile finishes her coffee and rises. "Wake me when Mama and Papa are home."

* * *

Valens rushes at her when she comes into the living room—he nearly tackles Gemile to the ground. He's smaller than she is, still a little boy, but terribly strong. Lavinia looks on, with big, regardful eyes—like Talin's, except in their colour.  
  


"Do not harass your sister," says Mama, although the amusement tinges her voice. Valens detaches himself from Gemile—she tousles his hair. Mama opens her arms and Gemile walks into them as if compelled by magic. Her earrings jingle and she smells of sandalwood and her embrace is so safe. She buries her face in Mama's black hair.  
  


When they part, Mama's eyes are shining. Gemile has to look away.   
  


"My girl." Papa doesn't wait for her to come to him—he pulls her into a brisk hug. "Tatianus has told us. . .quite a story."  
  


"You _what,_ " Gemile hisses. Tatianus holds his palms up, looking guilty. "He should have let me tell it."  
  


"I certainly would ask that you give us your account, as well. Your brother gave some details I hope not to verify."  
  


Gemile glares daggers at Tatianus, who looks pointedly elsewhere.  
  


"The little ones must first be put to bed," Mama reminds them.  
  


"You owe me three hundred and ninety-two bedtime stories," Lavinia pipes up.  
  


"I reckon I can come up with something, at least for tonight. Come with me," Gemile calls, heading for the bedroom wing. She shoots Tatianus a last withering look over her shoulder as Lavinia and Valens trail after her.

* * *

Tatianus has made more coffee. Of course. Never mind that the sun is well down. Mama and Papa drink as though it was morning. Gemile sips at hers. What harm could it do?—she slept through the afternoon.  
  


"My girl, I want to hear this straight from you." Papa's ice-blue eyes bore into hers. Just the same eyes as Tinus—although—his warm brown skin only makes his gaze steelier by comparison. "Did you. . .did you lie with the Emperor?"  
  


Gemile shifts. "I—he told me that. . .I c—I had the option of—refusing. . .him, but that if I did, I might find myself very quickly out of a job."  
  


"Would then that you had refused!" roars Papa. Tatianus flinches. "He would have sent you home—what of it?"  
  


"But you went to so much trouble," says Gemile, in a very small voice. "If they tossed me out after—after a few weeks—"  
  


"Marcus." Mama's voice is firm. "We could not have given her here what she had in Uriel's court. Why should she give that up?"  
  


"Uriel's— _court_ —gave her more than a little bloody work experience, as it turns out."  
  


"Papa," says Tatianus. "That's vile. Have you been listening? It wasn't Gemile's fault."  
  


"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," snaps Gemile.  
  


Papa makes a sound of contempt. "How shall I talk about you, then? Good morning, my whore-daughter. Kindly pass me the salt, my darling girl and, it appears, the darling girl of any man with enough gold in his—"  
  


"That—is—enough," says Mama, very quietly, which never bodes well. Tatianus instantly quails, even if he isn't the target of her rage, but Papa only looks angrier. "Marcus, get out."  
  


"Livia, look at what you're defending!"  
  


"I am looking. And I see that you are upsetting our daughter greatly. Leave."  
  


"You—"  
  


" _Leave,_ " repeats Mama, and the air grows thick with static electricity. The ends of her hair start to lift. "This has gone far enough. If you have woken the children with your screeching, my oath under the eyes of Arkay—" Her voice is stiff with the effort of keeping herself in hand.  
  


Papa stands and walks out—the door shuts soundly behind him.  
  


". . .At least it's a warm night," says Tatianus, letting out a long breath.  
  


"Do not joke," says Mama. "Gemile, what have you to say for yourself about all this?"  
  


Tatianus has to nudge her to startle her out of her shock. "I—I—I—" She breathes in, and out. "He's. . .such a lovely boy, Mama. He was walking, and speaking, in Old Cyrodilic even—if you'd seen him. . ."  
  


Mama frowns. "Would that I had. But for what it is worth, I have a grandson at last. You chose a good name for him." The corner of her mouth lifts, and that little gesture draws Gemile to her. They hold one another tightly for—she doesn't know how long, but Tatianus has gone off to bed by the time they disentangle.  
  


"Your brother was right," says Mama, stacking the coffee-cups. "It is a warm night for Sun's Dawn. Your father will be fine."  
  


"Suppose I care." Gemile's blood freezes as soon as she's said it, but the reprimand from Mama never comes. Papa must have pissed her off tremendously. "Sorry," she adds anyway.  
  


"No need. You are within your right to expect an apology from your father. Try to get some sleep in the meantime."   
  


"All right."


	14. 3E 386, Sun's Dawn 27 (!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for (oblique) references to sexual assault and pregnancy

Mama opens the door gently, bearing a small green bottle. "Are you awake, Gemile?" She parts the curtains to let in the sun.  
  


"Ugh." Gemile squints into the morning sunlight. "I slept all day yesterday, Mama. I didn't get much sleep last night."  
  


"Don't make a habit of it. I expect you in bed at a sane hour tonight."  
  


"That was my plan, too."  
  


Mama smiles. "I brought you some oil for your scar, in case it was giving you trouble."  
  


"Well, it's been a year. And Tatianus needs to keep his fat mouth shut."  
  


"Gemile. Your brother wants only to help. It costs you nothing to try."  
  


She's right. Gemile sits up, taking the bottle. "If it makes you happy. Thank you."  
  


"Your father will not see you. I'll bring your breakfast here."  
  


Her heart drops. "Oh. I—I could. . .that is, I could go to Cheydinhal for a few days. I have a bit of money left, and I want to see the Cornerclub."  
  


"I prefer you go to the Bridge Inn."  
  


"Because the owner's an Imperial?"  
  


"Because I know her. But I think you had ought to stay. It will give your father a chance to stop acting a fool."  
  


"He won't cool off until I'm out of sight," reasons Gemile. "Then it'll be forgotten." So she hopes.  
  


"If that is his wish, he is welcome to go. Arkay knows he has friends enough to stay with." Mama gives her that half-smile again, that knowing corner-of-the-mouth twitch. "I am too pleased with your return, Gemile, to send you away for a second time."  
  


She starts to leave.  
  


"Mama—" Gemile clears her throat, and her face immediately heats up under Mama's expectant gaze. "Er. Do—I. . .does it go back to normal?" She pokes at her midsection. "I feel—I still feel paunchy."  
  


Mama flashes her a frank smile. " _ Carissima. _ You are, as ever, thin as a reed."  
  


"Did you ever have—?" Gemile makes a slicing motion across her belly with her finger.  
  


"Tatianus," says Mama grimly, "was a baby of some stature." She kisses Gemile's forehead. "Don't waste your time worrying. It will mend itself."  
  


She leaves Gemile to ponder that—at least until the door swings open again.  
  


"Rise and shine," grins Martina. She barely has time to put down the breakfast tray before Gemile runs at her. "Hey," she wheezes. "Been a while, hasn't it?"  
  


"Where have you been, Tina?"  
  


"I could ask you the same." Martina fixes her hair-tie. "I hear you went and named a baby for me."  
  


Tatianus. Again. "I'm going to murder him."  
  


"Don't be like that, Gem. I'm flattered. I'd have liked to meet him, but Tati—well—I  _ hear _ that that could be a problem."  
  


"I don't know why he can't keep his fat nose out of my business for one morning."  
  


"I'm on your side, babes. I think it was a bit shit of him to tell Mama and Papa. And I think it was enormously shit of Papa to say those things to you." She sits down next to Gemile on the bed, and breaks off a little piece of her sweet roll. Cinnamon. "How do you feel, after everything?"  
  


"I don't think you'd get it."  
  


"Pretend I would. Maybe I'll surprise you."  
  


"I don't know, I. . ." Gemile casts a glance through the window. Outside the blue waters of the Corbolo are glittering. "You know I didn't want it. Not any of it."  
  


Martina sighs and thumbs at her nose piercing. She nods for Gemile to speak.  
  


"I was there for the Empress, not—" Gemile draws her legs up onto the bed. "And she was lovely, and once while I was helping her with a gown, that man came by, and. . ." She toys with a strand of her hair. "From then, everything went to Oblivion."  
  


"So, did. . .was. . ." Martina's lips move as she tries to form her thought. "No, never mind. Go on?"  
  


"I was so afraid when—in the beginning. I went to see the court mage's apprentice—"  
  


"Oh! Sil—Silwythe?"  
  


"Silmane," says Gemile.  
  


"Her!"  
  


"But they'd told her she wasn't to. Wasn't to give me anything."  
  


"To have it—?"  
  


Gemile nods.  
  


"She wouldn't do it for her friend?"  
  


"We weren't friends then. She didn't know me—she wasn't about to go against a direct order from the Emperor for me."  
  


"Huh," says Martina.  
  


"So then—" Gemile gestures a growing belly. "You know, for a few months. And I'd wake up in the mornings and I'd think it was all a trick of Vaermina, and then I'd remember." She takes a teacup from the breakfast tray and drinks. Mint and honey. "This is good."  
  


"Isn't it? Mama had the little ones gather it this morning."  
  


"So it was the 5th of Morning Star when I had him, and it was—something was wrong, so. . .Tati told you?"  
  


Martina makes a face. "Yeah."  
  


"I couldn't get out of bed for about a month. I spent most of my time sleeping, and I wished you and Mama and everyone were there. At some point they asked me for a name, and. . ." She shrugs. "He's really a very bright boy. You'd have liked him."  
  


"Of course I would have, with a name like that." Martina throws an arm around her. "He did grow on you."  
  


"I was afraid he wouldn't, but—" Gemile grins listlessly. "I'm his mama."  
  


"And, what, the Emperor just—confiscated him?"  
  


"I was ready to make my decision, and bring him home to Gold Leaf, and he told me he'd decided  _ for _ me. Again. I don't know what I was expecting."  
  


"There's nothing you can do? I don't know—involve the law?"  
  


"Come off it. It's the Emperor."  
  


"Hm. So how do you feel?" asks Martina again.  
  


"I feel like I deserved a say in the last two years of my life." Gemile sighs and sets aside her tea. "You know there was—I wasn't writing by then, but one of the servants—the palace cleaners, he came to find me on my birthday." She smiles. "It was very sweet. He thought I might have been lonely. Once I was on my feet again, he would watch Tinus for me. We taught him to walk together."  
  


"He was walking, Martinus?"  
  


"Mm. Well, too."  
  


"My sort of kid." Martina picks another piece off the sweet roll. "This cleaner is still at the palace, then?"  
  


"No. He left when I did. I don't know where he went off to."  
  


"Too bad."  
  


Gemile shrugs. "What about you? Was it Valenwood this time?"  
  


". . .Summerset." Martina frowns. "I actually wanted to talk to you about that. I'm, er, engaged?"  
  


"I hope not the way Tati is engaged. Poor Nadinandriah."  
  


"Hmm. No, not quite. It's—er—a very striking. . .elven. . .woman."  
  


"So. . . _ exactly _ the way Tati is engaged."  
  


"Gem."  
  


"You're having me on."  
  


"Gem, don't make this hard."  
  


"I'm not trying to, I. . ." Gemile blows a hair out of her face. "Do Mama and Papa know?"  
  


"No one but you. And not a word to any of them, all right?"  
  


"Fine." Gemile crosses her legs. "So how did you know?"  
  


"'s not Conjuration, love. I just met someone I was happy to be around."  
  


"Oh." For no real reason, Ria is in her mind again, her high laugh, like a bell. "I think. . .I understand."  
  


"Do you." Martina grins wider. "And the servant boy, too? Interesting."  
  


"Oi." Her face burns. "Not a word."  
  


"My lips are sealed."  
  


"Well," says Gemile, feeling a deep, sudden strangeness in her chest. "Congratulations."   
  


"Thanks, Gem."


	15. 3E 386, Second Seed 2

"Gem! Letter for you!" calls Martina.  
  


"Just now? I didn't hear anything."  
  


"Yeah, I caught him on my way back." Martina waddles with a huge crate full of produce in her arms. The letter is perched on top of a stack of tomatoes. Gemile snatches it.  
  


Martina clicks her tongue. "I could use some help, you know."  
  


"In a bit. Have we got a letter opener?"  
  


"Search me, love. I came here after you did."  
  


Gemile sighs and tears the envelope open, carefully, with her fingertips. Martina returns from the kitchen and peers over her shoulder. "Is that a Bruma seal? Who's writing you from Bruma?"  
  


"I dunno." The envelope finally yields, and she takes out a cream-coloured page which smells faintly of smoke.   
  


"Hey," says Martina, turning over the discarded envelope in her hands. "Pretty handwriting. You don't recognise it?"  
  


"I don't  _ know. _ " Although a glimmer of hope sparks in her heart as she unfolds the paper. Before reading a word, her eyes dart to the looping, ornate signature at the bottom:  
  


_ J'hani Rouvandi _

_ Across from the Butter Market _

_ West of the Chapel of Talos _

_ (This house has no name, but I think this is enough for a courier to find me with, should you wish to write me back.)  
  
_

"Oh," she says.  
  


"Anyone good after all?" prods Martina.  
  


"Just let me read it."  


_ 19 Seed-I 386  
  
_

_ Gemile,  
  
_

_ Are you surprised that I'm writing from Bruma? I am. I never had an inkling that I would come here of all places—and I still find it objectionable. All that cold and torch-smoke. . .I don't think I am built for it.  
  
_

_ Regardless, there is plenty of room in the Heartlands for my mother to roam, and I make enough to live on, so I can't complain.  
  
_

_ I do envy you, coming home to family. (I hope you did get home safe!) This city is big and lonely, although I could simply be missing certain company. . .strange, the distrust that the Nords have for the Imperials, and the Imperials for the Nords, and that both have for the very few Khajiit in town. Even without snow, I suspect a city like this would have a cold air—if that makes sense.  
  
_

_ I worked as a server in some Nord pub, but it took all of three weeks for me to quit. Too many strange propositions. Now I assist a bad-tempered arrow-fletcher. It pays miserably, but I am fed and moderately warm and my mother seems happy when I visit her, and so things are all right.  
  
_

_ But what of you? Are you settling back in? How are things with your family?  
  
_

_ Yours, _

_ J'hani Rouvandi  
_

Martina frowns. "J'hani. . .J'hani. . ."  
  


"You remember I told you about that boy from the palace? The cleaner?"  
  


"Ah," says Martina. "Bruma seems like an odd choice for a Khajiit. I'd shrivel up and die in Bruma." She scans the letter again. "'Missing certain company', is he?"  
  


Gemile pockets the letter and heads into the kitchen. "Let's just start dinner."  
  


"What was that about his mother? Did he say he left her to the woods? Is she addled?"  
  


"No, she isn't ad—Let's start  _ dinner. _ "  


* * *

Mama, Tatianus and the little ones come home well after dusk. Lavinia is rubbing her eyes, and even Valens isn't flitting around as he normally does.  
  


Tatianus wraps Gemile and Martina in a hug. "How are my second- and third- favourite sisters?"   
  


Martina groans. "All right before you got your sweat on me."  
  


"Hey, who's second and who's third?"  
  


"Gem, we both know I'm second."  
  


"And I'm first," says Lavinia. "Ha."  
  


"Right you are." Gemile frees herself and hugs Mama. "How was your trip?"  
  


"The stupid guildmaster said I couldn't be an associate until I'm fifteen. Even though I'm already smart enough."  
  


Tatianus scoops up Lavinia. "Too smart, maybe. Cheydinhal needs those six years to prepare itself for you."   
  


"There is no such thing as 'too smart'," says Mama, her eyes twinkling. "Lavinia and I were most impressed by the library, weren't we?"  
  


"It was massive," mumbles Lavinia.  
  


"It was boring," intones Valens.  
  


" _ You're _ boring! Go to Oblivion!"  
  


" _ Lavinia. _ "  
  


"Sorry, Mama."  
  


Tatianus sighs. "I'll put them to bed, then."  
  


"I want Gem," says Lavinia.  
  


"You heard the lady, _ avicella. _ "  
  


The four go into the bedroom wing; Tatianus elbows open the door to Valens and Lavinia's room. Without another word, Valens jumps into bed and goes out like a light—Gemile and Tatianus exchange a smile. Tatianus lays Lavinia down as Gemile eases the duvet out from under Valens in order to tuck him in properly.  
  


"They taught me a spell, Gem," Lavinia mumbles.  
  


"Yeah?"  
  


Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't for her baby sister to open her arms and send a wide blue column of fire across the room.  
  


Tatianus reels back, clapping a hand over his mouth. "Talos' beard, Lavinia!"  
  


"It's not dangerous." Lavinia levels another burst of flame straight at Tatianus' chest—he freezes halfway to screaming when he realises it isn't hurting him. "There, see? It's only magefire."  
  


"You—" says Tatianus loudly. His voice breaks. Instead, as not to wake Valens, he hisses, "You might have told me that  _ before _ you threw fire at me."  
  


"I wanted to see what you would do."  
  


"And now we know not to do it again, eh?" Gemile puts in.  
  


Lavinia shrugs. "Don't tell Mama. I'll know if you do."  
  


"On my blood," says Gemile dutifully.  
  


"I-I think she'd ought to know,  _ pia.  _ Mama's a mage," reasons Tatianus.  
  


Lavinia shakes her head. "It's not the same."  
  


Tatianus looks between them with troubled eyes. Gemile looks back at him, meaningfully. "As you like, then," he says at last, trying to keep himself from trembling as he leaves the room.  
  


Gemile sits down on the edge of Lavinia's bed, drawing up the covers. "That was a bit wicked. You really frightened him."  
  


Lavinia sighs and points across the room at the opposite wall. "Look. I did it there first. No burns at all."  
  


"You could have explained that bit."  
  


"Well, it's his own fault if he didn't notice. Besides, I didn't think he'd scare like a little frog."  
  


Gemile can't stifle a snicker.  
  


"See? You thought it was funny."  
  


"Not just then I didn't. I was scared to death. And  _ I  _ wasn't even the one who got. . .who thought they were getting cooked."  
  


"If I'd asked, he would have said no." Lavinia crosses her arms. "No one trusts me. They all think I'm simple. Like I can't tell magefire from proper fire."  
  


"Who thinks?"  
  


"Mama and Papa treat me like a baby! Tina's all right, and you, but Tati and Valens are awful."  
  


"Mama wants to help. Tatianus, too. D'you think they'd have taken you to the Mages Guild if they thought you were a baby?"  
  


Lavinia makes a noncommittal 'mm' sound.  
  


"If Papa doesn't listen, just be louder," Gemile grins. "And Valens will come around, I promise. He's just got a bit of growing up to do."  
  


"D'you think he'll be back soon? Papa?"  
  


Gemile purses her lips and exhales. Moonlight pours in through the picture window, illuminating the river outside. "I have to think so."  _ He owes me an apology, _ she nearly adds. It's easy to forget that Lavinia is only ten, and doesn't need to shoulder all Cyrodiil's burdens just yet. "Don't worry, all right? He'll be back. It'll be OK."  
  


"I'm not worried," sulks Lavinia, rolling over in a silent dismissal.  
  


As Gemile blows out the candles on the dresser, a tiny 'good night' comes from Lavinia's end of the room. "Good night," she whispers back, closing the door behind her.  
  


Tatianus is still in the hall, trying to even out his breathing. "You shouldn't encourage her."  
  


"She'll do worse if she feels she's being stifled. Poor thing hasn't even got a room to herself," Gemile shrugs. "She thinks you baby her."  
  


"That's no excuse for her to hurl about  fire magic,  is it? "  
  


"Just calm down, will you? Take deep breaths. Shall I count them for you?"  
  


"No," Tatianus shakes his head perhaps a few times more than he intended. "I'm going to make tea, I think. Fancy any?"  
  


"Yes, please."  
  


Tatianus walks ahead of her, casting a glance into the living room, and his eyes go wide. "Actually, we have coffee we still need to polish off." He scurries into the kitchen.  
  


Frowning, Gemile heads into the living room. Mama and Papa are on opposite ends of the sofa, still as stone idols. Mama has her hands folded in her lap; Papa twiddles his thumbs.  
  


"Gemile, your father is here."  
  


"She can see that, Livia." Papa stands, awkwardly, and opens his arms. He doesn't have the same magnetic power as Mama, and he seems to know it. He takes a step forward. Gemile obliges him and lets him embrace her. Papa smells faintly of ale.  
  


"My girl," he murmurs into the top of her head, "my little girl, my sweetest daughter." He pulls away after a long while and holds her at arm's length. "I was too harsh in my judgement."  
  


"That's the revelation that took so many weeks?" Tatianus steps gingerly into the room, with a pewter flagon and four little coffee-cups on a tray. "You still have young children, do you know, and they tend to find it a bit confusing when their Papa disappears on a whim and won't come back for days and days on end."  
  


Papa lets go of Gemile's shoulders. "Hold your tongue, Tatianus Marcianus." He's not good at sounding authoritative, it comes out as a challenge, if anything, but Tatianus is cowed. "I was asked to leave; I left."  
  


"I can't fathom—" Tatianus sets down the tray, speaking quietly. "How did you even pass two months in Cheydinhal?"  
  


"Perhaps you'd be better served asking your mother."  
  


"Marcus," says Mama slowly, "I sent a message: Come back when you know how to be civil with your daughter. I did  _ not _ ask that you fall off the face of Nirn for two months."  
  


"What changed your mind about me?" Gemile sits down between her parents. Tatianus grudgingly takes a seat next to Mama.  
  


"Gemile, while I maintain that you should have declined the offer of that filthy man, I do not blame you entirely for what came after." Papa has gone back to twiddling his thumbs. "As a matter of fact. Will you humour me, my girl? I should like to hear about my grandson."  
  


Gemile bites her lip. "I haven't been thinking about it." _Haven't wanted to._  


Mama lays her hand over Gemile's. Tatianus passes her a cup of coffee. She takes a drink, observing Papa over the rim of her cup. Blue eyes. That's the first thing she can think to say.

"He has eyes like yours, Papa."


	16. 3E 386, Second Seed 3

Gemile toys with her loose hair, enjoying the balmy morning breeze through it. It's about an hour after dawn, and the market should just be waking up. The Stahlrim dagger is in her waist-sash, just to be certain. Even having it nearby makes her uneasy, but she tries not to dwell.  
  


The wooden market stalls look small, like brightly-painted little toys from a distance, and as she comes closer they become bigger and brighter: one piled high with spices and nuts and olives; one selling jewelry; and from the shelves of the biggest stall dangle all manner of furs, coats and cloaks. She heads toward it.  
  


" _ Bonam diem, _ my lady," says the proprietor, a wide-set little man with a wispy black beard.  
  


" _ Pax tecum, _ sir. Could I ask you for some shopping advice?"  
  


"Of course, madam—naturally."  
  


"Say that I wanted something fit for life near the northern border."  
  


"Ah, you have a companion up in Bruma, then?"  
  


"Yes," says Gemile, after a bit of hesitation. It's only a merchant, after all. He has no stake in her personal life.  
  


"I do believe I know just the thing. Excuse me for one moment." He smiles and goes to rummage around the many shelves in the back.  
  


"So do you get many customers here, sir?"   
  


"I beg your pardon?"  
  


Gemile clears her throat. "Well, how's business? It doesn't tend to get very cold in the heart of the Nibenay Valley."  
  


"Better than you may think, my lady. There are those like yourself who are travelling or wish a gift for a friend in the north. And some who simply like the look of a pelt much to go without." He gathers a dark cloak into his arms and comes back to the front, draping it across the counter. "Were we in Sentinel, I wager that I could still find a buyer for a fine coat. Now  _ this, _ " he smooths out the cloak, which, in the light, has a faint purple sheen. "This may be what you are looking for."  
  


"Can I touch it?"  
  


"Of course."  
  


Gemile glides her hand across it; the material is soft and yielding. Some sort of velvet? She rubs a length of it between her thumb and forefinger. It's decently thick, but it might not do the job on its own. "I'd like to try it on, please."  
  


"Certainly. But I would be brief, were I you. It may be. . .uncomfortable in this weather."  
  


The merchant steps out of the stall and fastens the cloak for her—immediately she begins to sweat. It's like stepping into a coal heater.   
  


"All right, that's quite enough," she says breathlessly, taking the thing off and handing it to him. She wipes the sweat from her forehead with the end of her sash. Her gaze falls on a tattered handkerchief, sky-blue, pinned through the middle to the corner of the stand with a long, corroded nail.   
  


"That's been there for years. A symbol of my faith in Gold Leaf," says the merchant warmly, twisting a strand of his ailing beard between his fingers. "Was the cloak to your liking?"  
  


"It was. . ." She exhales. "It certainly did its job. How is that possible? I thought I was feeling faint."  
  


"It was woven from the hairs of the Jehanna silken-goat—not those horrid coarse Skyrim goats. The Bretons have the right of it. I ask you. What use is there in a cloak too rough and irritating to wear?"  
  


"None at all," agrees Gemile politely.  
  


"It was also woven," the merchant goes on, "with a very subtle flame enchantment. For the harshest cold."  
  


"You don't think that'll be a bit. . . _ too _ hot for Bruma?"  
  


The merchant laughs with long wheezes, baring his yellowed teeth. "I will make the bold assumption that you have never visited Bruma, my lady. I assure you. . .it is the perfect temper."  
  


"Hm." Gemile's heart sinks. "How much, then?"  
  


"You are Marcus Aemilianus' daughter, are you not?"  
  


"Yes. Gemile is my name."  
  


"Ah, Gemile. Like our lady Ansei. A lovely thing you grew into, if I may be so uncouth. Normally, this artful piece would go for three-hundred at least. For you, one hundred and fifty septims."  
  


"One-ten."  
  


"One hundred and fifty," repeats the merchant, with a contented grin.  
  


"Well, sorry. But I'm only carrying about one-thirty." Gemile frowns. "Then will you hold the cloak for me while I go and get the rest?"  
  


The merchant sighs. "One-thirty will do," he concedes. "Consider it. . .paying forward my esteem for your father."  
  


"Thank you," Gemile grins and deposits the coinpurse on the counter with a merry little  _ clink. _ "Would you do me one more favour, sir? Would you wrap it in good brown paper?"  
  


"That I would."

* * *

_ Dear _

"That's a bit presumptuous, don't you think?" interrupts Martina.  
  


Gemile lets her pen fall. "I'm not going to write with you leering over my shoulder like that." She stands and pushes Martina bodily out of the room.  
  


"Fine, don't take a master's advice."  
  


"Out."  
  


"Better be done before noon. I'm going out this evening, and I want to have a nap first."  
  


"Fine! Go!"  
  


Martina holds up her hands and lets herself be manhandled out the door.  
  


Now.  
  


_ J'hani, _ she writes, on a new sheet of paper. It's Mama's, dyed a quiet blue and carrying the vague scent of lotus.  
  


_ 3 Seed-II 386, _ she adds at the top, and her heart twinges. If J'hani's letter was anything to go by, it'll be a two-month wait for her letter to arrive and another two for his next one to come.  
  


_ Bruma. I shudder to think of it, if I'm honest. Hopefully you won't, though, with the gift I'm sending along with this letter. Shudder, that is. I want it to be a surprise, but if the courier has "misplaced" it, then feel free to give him an earful. Hopefully, if it arrives safely, it'll go nicely with your mantle. Soon I'll have you in the middle of the Nord capital of Cyrodiil dressed up utterly like a Nibenese lord!   
  
_

_ I wonder about the sorts of propositions you get working in a Nord pub. The sort you can't commit to paper without blushing and feeling ridiculous? I understand, I think. There are lots of Uriels about.  
  
_

_ Fletching arrows, is that any fun? I can't imagine that it is. Or if there's a little joy in it, I imagine that's gone when the old bugger pays you two septims a month. For my part, I'm living on my parents' gold for a bit. I still have my savings from the Palace, or whatever's left of them. I think I'd like to be a merchant myself, and deal in all sorts of goods from all Tamriel. Does that sound interesting? I rather think so.  
  
_

_ I was beset by bandits a few months ago, actually! I only lived because Talin had snuck a dagger into my trunk that I refused to take as a gift. I hope I have the chance to thank him and then cuff his ear.  
  
_

_ As far as my family go. . .they're the same as ever. Tatianus has been by turns engaged and not-engaged to a poor wood elf girl for a few years now. He's too afraid of dying? I don't know, your guess is as good as mine.   
  
_

_ Martina has been travelling the world. . .but she's come to stay for a while as well. (She's engaged, too, but very secretly.)  
  
_

_ Lavinia is already so talented with magic that it's frightening. She pulled a fast one on Tatianus and made him think he was set on fire.   
  
_

_ Valens isn't doing well at his lessons, on the other hand. He prefers to run around and use his hands to work, but Papa insists that he be educated as we all were. I suppose it's for the best, but I always have the impression that he's so unhappy, desperately unhappy for a little boy of twelve.   
  
_

_ And me? I'm only missing specific company.  
  
_

_ Tell your mother hello for me. Next time you visit her, ask her if there's anything she'd like from the south and I'll see what I can do. I hear Bruma is a bit remote for luxury goods.  
  
_

__ Write me soon, and I hope you had a happy birthday!  
  


_ Bene habeas, _

_ Gemile _


	17. 3E 386, Second Seed 6

"And another thing—" Tatianus adds, red-faced in his boozy outrage, "I don't know how anyone expects me to live my life while I have to help Mama care for two children, who otherwise have two absentee sisters and a father who ducks out of town for months as soon as he's the slightest bit wound up! And Nadi says I'm too afraid to leave Gold Leaf—I jolly well can't just pack up and leave Valens and Lavinia to their fates as everyone else in this family seems to have done!" He finishes his last sip of wine, and descends from anger into a deep sadness. "And I'll be seeing thirty soon enough with bugger-all to show for it."  
  


"You know what you could do, if you're so worried about your youth?" says Martina slyly. "You could always become a vampire. I hear there're people that'll turn you for a price."  
  


Tatianus taps his chin.  
  


"Hang on, no. No—Tati, no. I was joking."  
  


"Well, I—I—could get it cured after a few decades, after I've done the things I wanted to. Maybe I could even still go back to Nadi."  
  


A few other patrons give them distasteful looks.  
  


"Tatianus," says Martina sharply. "Don't be an idiot. How many vampires do you think have said that to themselves? And what if you get a sort that's hard to cure?"  
  


Gemile watches the exchange, silently verging on total panic. He can't become a vampire. It's against the law. The guards will all be unhappy.  
  


"Tati," Martina is saying, gently, with teary eyes, "Tati, you won't even kill a spider. How will you live if you need to hurt people to do it?"  
  


"I. . .bugger. Hells. I don't know," Tatianus wails. "I could never! I'd wither die all over again! I can't believe the thought ever crossed my mind," he sniffs. "I'm an awful person."  
  


"No, you're not," says Martina, beginning to sob as well. "My baby brother! A vampire!"  
  


Gemile puts her head on the table for a nap. When she opens her bleary eyes again, the walls are a different colour and she's—sort of—not quite right.  
  


She rolls off the bed, onto a soft, warm floor which squawks its protest.  
  


"Ow—what—Gem!" Tatianus pushes her away and rolls to the side simultaneously, freeing himself. Looking ill, he hoists himself up to the edge of the bed.  
  


"Where 're we," mumbles Gemile.  
  


"I had to rent a  _ room, _ " cries Martina from behind a modesty screen in the corner, "because you pests can't hold your drink and I wasn't about to come home with a couple of drunken wastrels in tow."  
  


"Tati wanted to be a vampire," says Gemile, licking her chapped lips.  
  


Martina goes quiet behind the screen.  
  


Tatianus gives Gemile a strange look. "Did I say that?"  
  


"Yes. You were both snivelling about it."  
  


"I'm never weepy when I'm pissed," says Martina.   
  


"Are we anywhere near the Reed? I'd like to bathe before we go home." Tatianus punctuates his sentence with a yawn.  
  


"I've some lavender oil from the market," says Gemile, tossing him the bottle. "Mama and Papa will wonder why we're wearing the same scent, though."  
  


"They'll know what we were up to. What matters is the little ones don't."  
  


Martina steps out from the screen, drying her hair with a dark green cloth. "You're mad if you think Lavinia won't have our numbers the instant we step inside."  
  


"You've had a bath!" says Tatianus. "Your hair's wet!"  
  


"Because I paid for it. And because I woke up before  _ noon, _ you lazy beast."  
  


Tatianus sighs and daubs the lavender oil onto his neck, trying in vain to fix his hair with his free hand.  
  


"I'm going to go ask if they have any mint leaves," says Gemile, standing.  
  


Martina breathes into her hand, sniffs, and grimaces. "Will you fetch me some? I think I could kill a sewer rat."  
  


"Oh, me as well," says Tatianus.

* * *

Mama glares at them as they file one by one into the house. "Welcome home, children. I hope you enjoyed yourselves. Valens has been throwing fits all through the morning, and now he's run off into the village. I would ask that at least one of you go after him."  
  


Gemile and Martina both turn to their brother.  
  


"Fine," says Tatianus, without any preamble, and heads right out again.  
  


"Girls, you may help yourselves to the remainder of the breakfast I made."  
  


"Thank you, Mama," says Martina, giving Mama a quick 'please-forgive-me' hug. Gemile does the same, and, ravenous, they race into the kitchen.  
  


" _ Yes. _ " Martina pumps her fist. Still steaming, by Mama's subtle magic, are a pot of coconut rice with eggs and bits of chicken, and a small saucepan of hot sour soup.  
  


They plate the food quickly and sit down at the table.  
  


"Tina, you don't actually think he'd be better off as a v—"  
  


"No. I don't," says Martina curtly. "You might recall I was pissed out of my head, as were the two of you."  
  


"Still, what a thing to say!"  
  


Martina shakes her head faintly and returns to her food.  
  


By the time they finish, Tatianus is back with a deeply sulky Valens.  
  


"I don't  _ want _ to learn stupid arithmetic or poetry or history or any of it! There's no use in it!"  
  


"You say that now,  _ lepus _ , but I promise you this will all serve you well when you're older."  
  


"You're  _ wrong, _ Tati! People always say that to me and they're always  _ wrong! _ "  
  


"Hey, hey, hey," says Martina in her formidable oldest-sibling voice; firm, but thoroughly kind. "What's the matter, Valens?"  
  


"I've been doing stupid history all morning,  _ that's _ the matter! It's so boring and we're not even done with the First Era!"  
  


"He kicked the poor tutor, apparently," clarifies Tatianus. "Valens, Mama and Papa put good money into your education."  
  


"Well, they'd ought to stop, because it isn't working on me! I don't want to be a stupid merchant at all!"  
  


"No one's saying you need to be. But—"  
  


"Then why do I have to do these stupid lessons all the time?"  
  


"Valens," interrupts Martina. "You don't have to be a merchant, but what would you like to be instead?"  
  


"I want to join the Legion!" he says, without a moment's hesitation.  
  


No one speaks. Martina blows out a long breath. Tatianus crosses his arms.  
  


". . .What put you onto that idea?" asks Gemile, cautiously.  
  


"I don't know. A book? I want to be the General, or at least a Legate!"  
  


Every word out of Valens' mouth seems to antagonise Martina and Tatianus more.  
  


"We're not really built for war, Valens," Tatianus begins. "That's really more of a Colovian. . .pastime."  
  


"What is it about the Legion that interests you?" prods Martina.  
  


Valens crosses his arms, copying his brother's defensive gesture. "Getting to learn about weapons and exercises and stuff. And if I get good enough, I'll be rich!"  
  


"If you get unlucky, you'll be dead," snaps Tatianus. He deflates almost instantly when Valens' eyes go wide. "I only mean to say that war isn't all that glamorous. You're hurting people. Killing them. Risking your own life, too."  
  


"Someone has to protect the Empire."  
  


"There are  _ plenty _ of people to protect the Empire! You got this drivel from a book?"  
  


"Is there something else you could try?" Gemile pipes up. "If it's working with your hands you fancy, maybe we could get you a job in town? Moving boxes, or something."  
  


" _ When? _ I spend all day doing stupid lessons!"  
  


"If you read more," points out Martina, "you'd know more ways to say 'stupid'."  
  


"That's another thing, though," says Gemile. "I think we should talk to Mama and Papa about shortening your lessons a bit."  
  


"It always worked for me," says Tatianus.  
  


"Well, it's obviously making Valens miserable, so it doesn't really matter what worked for whom," Gemile snaps.  
  


"I don't want  _ any _ lessons."  
  


"I know, but you're never going to convince Papa of that. We'll try first for no lessons after three. All right?"  
  


"Half two?" Valens pouts.  
  


Gemile sneaks glances at her older siblings. Martina already looks bored—Tatianus is Papa's spitting image, in his vaguely annoyed confusion. "Half two. OK. We'll all talk over dinner."  
  


Apparently satisfied, Valens heads right outside again through the back door.  
  


"Gem," says Tatianus.  
  


"What? What are you going to lecture me on now?"  
  


"You can't—coddle him, it'll only—"  
  


"It's not  _ coddling _ just to recognise that he's not the sort of child that likes getting talked at all day!"  
  


"No one _likes_ it, but he's making it harder than it—"  
  


"D'you think he's taking the piss? Do you really? I'd invite you to just—"  
  


"I'm not taking—that is I don't think he's—"  
  


"—just spend a day at those god-awful lessons with him listening to that little wrung-out old tutor and tell me how you like it! It's been, what, years for you, so—"  
  


"You two can fight this one out, loves," says Martina, starting to turn around.  
  


"Tina," says Gem.  
  


"Martina," says Tatianus simultaneously.  
  


"What?" Martina lifts her hands defensively. "This isn't really my territory."  
  


"You don't think Valens should just be miserable at his—"  
  


"Gem," Tatianus interjects. "I really think you're blowing this out of proportion." He makes himself breathe in deeply. "Think back, then. Did you really hate it all that much?"  
  


"You know I was a bit of a shit student. It was all I could do to drag myself through it, actually, especially since I was alone." The venom goes out of her voice as she speaks, replaced by a sort of careless honesty.  
  


"Alone?"  
  


"You finished when I started, Valens was  _ four  _ and Lavinia was  _ two _ . You had Tina—"  
  


"True thing," grins Martina. "The poor dear retired after Tati was done. We'd given her white hair."  
  


" _ You'd _ given her white hair," corrects Tatianus.  
  


"—and Valens and Lavinia will have each other, but I didn't have anyone."  
  


"Gem." Tatianus puts a tentative arm around her, and when she breaks into tears, he pulls her close.  
  


"I don't know why I'm even upset over this," mumbles Gemile into Tatianus' shirt. The scent of her own lavender oil only makes her blubbering worse.   
  


"It'll be all right, little bird," says Tatianus softly.   
  


After what feels like an eternity, she finds the energy to step out of the embrace and wipes her nose with her shawl—one of Mama's good red ones. Martina is nowhere to be found. "Would you at least not argue with me at dinner? For Valens' sake."  
  


"You don't think you may be. . ." Tatianus toys with the edge of his tunic. ". . .seeing yourself in him, a bit?"  
  


By the hand of Arkay, he can be an ass sometimes. She takes a breath. "Just—really watch him, then, watch Valens later, and see what you think. I don't know how else to make you understand."  
  


Tatianus sighs and makes a face as if he's waiting for her tantrum to end.  
  


"I wish you would trust me to know what I'm fucking talking about, Tatianus. I think it's time."  
  


"I trust you—but you have to know that you're—"  
  


"Childish? Hysterical?"  
  


" _ Young, _ " says Tatianus firmly, "and  _ hurt _ . None of us want to see Valens unhappy. Of course we don't. But what—"  
  


"You know Lavinia thinks you don't trust her. That's why she didn't ask you about that flame spell, because you would have said no."  
  


"And it would have been my good sense. I love her, but not enough to let her charbroil me alive."  
  


"But she didn't, did she?"  
  


"Lucky thing!" Tatianus folds his arms. ". . .why Lavinia, suddenly?"  
  


"I want you to understand what happens when you  _ dismiss _ them like this," says Gemile. "They're young, but they know what they want."  
  


"Fine. That's not to say their desires are always sensible, is it?"  
  


"You're exactly like Papa. Exactly so."  
  


"Do you know what I think?" says Tatianus icily. I think you have a chip on your shoulder because of Martinus. You aren't the divine authority, Gemile, simply because you spent  _ one _ year—"  
  


"Don't," she cuts in, in a voice that seems not to belong to her. "Please don't do that."  
  


"Sorry," he says, very quietly. "Ugly thing to say."  
  


Gemile presses the heels of her hands into her eyes.   
  


"Gem, I'm sorry."   
  


If she opens her mouth now, tears and nonsense will fall out and she'll prove his point. "At dinner," she manages, and retreats to the courtyard.


	18. 3E 386, Hearthfire 20

J'hani's letter has been sitting on her desk for three days now. It's dated Sun's Height 15—two months and two days from Bruma to Gold Leaf.

_Gem,_ it reads,   
  


_Before I forget: thank you! thank you! thank you! I don't know what to say. (What to write, as the case may be.) I hardly notice the chill with your cloak on, and I know that you've never been up north, but I promise you: that is an incredible thing. I hate to think how much a piece like that cost you, though—I expect I'll be burning the midnight oil in order to afford something fitting in return! But of course I labour gladly for the sake of specific company.  
  
_

_You would not be wrong to assume that fletching arrows was not my life's passion, especially not at the salary I got. I now clean the halls of Castle Bruma. The more things change, no? There is a Nord girl here with long dark hair like yours—sometimes I see her from the corner of my eye and I could swear  
_

The rest of the line is thoroughly scratched out, Gemile notes, still annoyed after reading through it for the umpteenth time. Would a new sheet of paper have been too much trouble?

_I think being a trader of exotic goods would be wonderful, though. I've always played with the idea of using my mother's contacts in Elsweyr to a similar end, but I haven't the time or capital. . .Some day, perhaps.  
  
_

_A lucky thing, at least, that Talin left you the dagger! Bandits! On a major trade route like that? Hardly seems like a good idea. Not that banditry anywhere else is a good idea. . .(This is to say: I'm very happy that you're safe.)  
  
_

_Your family sound like such characters— Has Nadinandriah herself gotten fed up with your brother yet? Poor girl. The fear of death strikes us all sometimes, but that's no reason to fear life. That was my mother's advice. She can be quite wise. She also says that perhaps Tatianus should take a leaf from Martina's book and enjoy living without too much thought for the future.  
  
_

_I sympathise with Valens as well—I never got on with my teachers. Almost never. I hope he finds his place, as does Lavinia. (Perhaps then Tatianus won't have to fear any magefire.)  
  
_

_But, having mentioned my mother—she says she has heard of a Nibenese liquor made with coconut and sugarcane. Should you know what she means by that, and should it be inexpensive there, I would happily deliver it on your behalf—but if not, she says she will not think the lesser of you.  
_

The signature is in a curly, foreign-looking script which Martina translated as "Moons light your path"—apparently a Ta'agra blessing. The rest reads, as usual:

_J'hani Rouvandi_

_Across from the Butter Market_

_West of the Chapel of Talos_

The liquor bottle is on the table already, safely wrapped. A splitting headache begins in her temples as she touches pen to paper.

_J'hani,_ she writes,   
  


_I can't keep this up. I feel mad. I feel ill, but more to the point I feel powerless, and I can't stick that any more. Martina will move back to Summerset with her betrothed soon, and I'm going to suffocate. I'll ask you one more time. My father is willing to give me the capital and teach me what I need to know about the trader's profession. Will you please join me?  
  
_

_If not, I won't hold it against you, but don't write me back. Sweetest luck befall your bloodline. (That's an old Nibenese blessing.)  
  
_

_You're very welcome for the cloak. I hope your mother enjoys the drink, it's Tatianus' favourite._   
  


_Bene habeas. Gem_

She'll give the parcel to Valens, to deliver on the way to his afternoon job—he loads and unloads the little leisure boats that travel up and down the Corbolo. His schoolwork had ought to be finished; it's half two.


	19. 3E 386, Sun's Dusk 17

Martina bites her lip, hefting her coat higher on her arm. "I hardly see why I need this thing, Mama. I'm going to Anvil. Then  _ Summerset. _ "  
  


"It's going to be winter, my dear," says Mama, pulling the end of Martina's haphazard plait out from the back of her shirt. She makes a sound of disapproval and ploughs up the entire thing with her fingers so she can begin to redo it.  
  


Gemile looks up. Masser is a perfect red crescent in the sky, Secunda invisible.  
  


"Mama, I don't have time for this."  
  


Mama pauses halfway through weaving a new plait, and faces Martina. "Come back soon,  _ carissima. _ " Her voice wavers.  
  


"I will, Mama," says Martina, carefully avoiding Mama's gaze and instead fixing Gemile with a meaningful look. "Gem, last call."  
  


"I. . .I have business here," says Gemile uncertainly.  
  


"Right," grins Martina, but she doesn't press the issue. "Enjoy business then. I know I'll enjoy mine."  
  


Mama kisses Martina on the forehead and leaves abruptly, brushing past Gemile with a stifled sniff.  
  


"Give your business my warmest regards, and best of luck for the future." Gemile laughs. "Yeah?"  
  


"Tell yours the same. . .if he ever shows up. And you have my address, right?"  
  


"Mm-hmm. And you have ours, obviously."  
  


"Right then." Martina pauses, then huffs and pulls Gemile in for a quick hug. " _ Bene ambula. _ "  
  


She hops into the carriage, and Gemile walks back through the city gates and into the Bridge Inn where Mama and Tatianus wait.  
  


The innkeep waves at her. "Evening, Mrs. Ancharia," says Gemile dutifully.  
  


"Good evening yourself, young miss Caridenius," says the woman, putting her hands on her broad hips. She grabs a decanter from the counter and follows Gemile to their table.  
  


"Thank you, Faustinia," says Mama as the innkeep tops up her drink. She turns to Gemile, folding her hands around the stem of her wine glass. "Business."  
  


Tatianus sucks in his cheeks and peers intently into his liquor.  
  


"I can't tell you," mumbles Gemile, feeling all of five years old. "You'll need to write Martina if you want to know."  
  


"Wonderful. I shall know of all my eldest daughter's clandestine affairs in just two years' time."  
  


Gemile squirms. "I really can't. Mama, please trust that it's nothing bad. Only personal."  
  


"I shall never see her again," sighs Mama, with a strange melancholy in her voice.  
  


"Of course you will," Tatianus puts in, laying a gentle hand on Mama's shoulder. "You know Martina. She's flighty, but she always comes back."  
  


"To roost," adds Gemile.  
  


Mama's bitter expression cracks to reveal that halfway-there smile. "Are you two comparing my daughter to a curse, or a homing pigeon?"  
  


"I see both in her," says Tatianus, with a ponderous frown.  
  


"What about a mooncalf?" Gemile suggests.  
  


"Or a sun-calf, if you like."  
  


"Pests, both of you," chuckles Mama, waving her hand to deter them. Then the laughter seems to go out of her. "Time that I retire, I should think. We depart for Gold Leaf at dawn, children—if you oversleep, you may find your own passage home."   
  


"Goodnight, Mama," chime Gemile and Tatianus.


	20. 3E 387, Morning Star 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you really are gonna have to excuse my prose here - i did a lot of editing, but 2018 me just had a very strange and janky ethos when it came to writing people??

Gemile wakes before the sunrise, already brimming with a sadness as light and persistent as soft rain. She slips into a white indoor dress. For good measure, she takes a gauzy light-coloured scarf, either Mama's or Martina's, and throws it over her shoulders.  
  


Papa is in the kitchen already, running his finger along the rim of an empty wine glass. "You look like a lost spirit, my dear." He shakes his head. "And I don't blame the dress."  
  


"Good morning, Papa," says Gemile dully. What else is there to say? "Do we have any coffee still?"  
  


"If we had any last night, it's still sitting there. What are we mourning?" He stands between Gemile and the countertop. Gemile tries instead to reach for a cup, but he heads her off with an outstretched arm.  
  


"I don't want to talk about it."  
  


"As you like," he says, grabbing a cup on her behalf and pouring the coffee from high in the air to make it taste less stale. Only he and Mama can do it that way without making a mess.   
  


"Leave room for the milk," mumbles Gemile. "Please."  
  


Papa raises an eyebrow. "Milk? I don't think I've heard you ask for milk since the first time you tasted coffee. Not only that," he sets down the jug with some force, "but you're dressed to make a will-o'-the-wisp look garish. Explain this to me."  
  


"I just wanted to drink my coffee differently today," snaps Gemile, feeling the blunt headache of impending tears. "I didn't think I was committing a crime."  
  


And Papa's face softens—he hugs her, and her remaining composure shatters. "Shh," he says, "hush, be still", although whether he's expressing his sympathy or tacitly reminding her that there are four people still asleep in the house is Akatosh's guess. She takes long, stuttering breaths that feel at once too deep and too shallow for comfort. After a few minutes, she pulls away, but the sight of Papa's blue eyes—his gift to Martinus—makes her heart sink again. She sits at the kitchen table, feeling stiff and brittle, as though she were made of straw.  
  


Papa sets the little coffee cup in front of her. She watches the swirl of milk wash out some of the colour, bleaching the coffee into a wood-brown liquid.  
  


"Gemile Marciana," says Papa, sitting down opposite her. "Even I—old gaffer that I am—even I can see that you aren't grieving over your coffee this morning."  
  


"Tinus is two years old today."  
  


"I see." Papa sighs—and then he's quiet. It's a trick of Mama's that he's picked up; to wait until she offers more.  
  


"I was. . .I was thinking about where I was a year ago today. Who was around me. What I was doing."  
  


"And what was that?"  
  


Gemile stares down her cup. "Just sort of. . .living each day with Tinus and everyone. You must remember what it's like, those first months. I don't know."  
  


Papa is quiet for a long while, maybe considering, maybe trying to pry more from her, but she's said enough. "Tatianus and I were going to bring the young ones out to help that Argonian woman—"  
  


"Shalha?"  
  


Papa purses his lips. "—to help that. . .Shalha with her winter crops. You might take them instead."  
  


"I might at that," Gemile smiles. She takes a sip of her coffee, and immediately wishes she hadn't. The milk has made it fatty and tasteless.  
  


"Silly girl. Give it to me." Papa grins and reaches for the cup. Reluctantly, Gemile passes it to him, and goes to make herself a proper coffee.

* * *

"Stop it," groans Valens, wriggling away from her. "I was just outside! I don't need a stupid scarf!"  
  


"You should have had one," sighs Gemile. She indicates Lavinia with her free hand. "Follow Lavinia's good example, will you? Tati will have my hide if he hears I let you two go out in the cold."  
  


"It's not even cold! You know Afilus Gregori says his unit used to march through Skyrim this time of year— _Skyrim!_ "  
  


Gemile squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. When she opens them again, Valens is staring her down—he's shot up close to a foot since his twelfth birthday, practically her height now. He's even got the beginnings of stubble on his upper lip, and all Gemile can think is that an unscrupulous Legion recruiter would surely take him at his word if he said he were sixteen.  
  


"What on earth has got you talking to Afilus Gregori?" says Gemile at last. "Doesn't he live in Cheydinhal?"  
  


"Papa went to the count and made him send a few guards here, and to the little farms where Shalha lives," puts in Lavinia.  
  


"Why?"  
  


Lavinia shrugs. "I only know this much because I eavesdropped. He told Mama there were bandits about, and something about a dagger. . . Gem?" she asks in a small voice.  
  


"Sorry, sorry. I was daydreaming," says Gemile, trying to dispel the feeling of ice behind her ribs. "I'll talk to Papa later. For now, put on the scarf." She thrusts the thing at Valens perhaps a bit harder than she intended, and Valens takes it with an uncommon meekness. "Now let's be going. I don't want to keep Shalha waiting."  
  


The afternoon is as the morning was: blue and crisp, and Gemile shelves the thought of renting a horse. Lavinia balks at the idea of walking the path—perhaps a mile—on foot, and in a strangely brotherly fashion Valens carries her on his back part of the way. Gemile smiles to herself, but she can't shake the thought that he might be training himself for an armoured march, or something. "All right, you can put her down, Valens."  
  


"But we're almost there!" whinges Lavinia.  
  


"Well, then. You had ought to get at least a bit of exercise."  
  


"I'm going to!" protests Lavinia. "Pulling up the plants is hard work!"  
  


" _Satis._ Put her down," says Gemile through her teeth.  
  


Lavinia clambers off of Valens, who crouches to let her down safely. They walk in sullen silence. Thankfully, though, Lavinia was right; Shalha's small house, clustered with several others in what can barely be called a village, is visible along the far bank of the Corbolo. They cross the mossy stone bridge and find the Argonian woman already waving to them, her brilliant red and yellow scales catching the meagre sun.   
  


"Hello, my dears," Shalha says, rushing forward to meet them and enveloping the three siblings in an awkward group hug for which Lavinia is significantly too short. "Have you come to help me with my plants?"  
  


"You know we have," mutters Valens.  
  


Shalha pauses and takes stock of him. "You have certainly grown. The spitting image of your brother."  
  


Lavinia snickers, and Gemile stifles a giggle—not that Tatianus is particularly ugly, but the comparison is simply lost on him; Valens' broad build, sun-bleached brown hair and light complexion are a far cry indeed from Tatianus' black hair and dark, mole-flecked skin.  
  


Shalha seems not to notice. "Oh, come inside, come inside! I was worried the day would be too hot for harvesting, but I think we will be all right." She eyes Valens' scarf with an amused glint in her eye.  
  


The house is as Gemile remembers; small, but well-kept and exceedingly tasteful, with a strict colour scheme of browns and deep reds. Shalha disappears into the kitchen and returns with three cups of jasmine tea on unglazed clay saucers. She winks as she passes Gemile her tea, and Gemile takes a cautious sip; the flowery flavour of Colovian brandy floods her mouth, adding a pleasant sharpness to the tea.  
  


"How have you all been?" asks Shalha warmly, leaving her own tea to sit. "It feels like years. . .it _has_ been years for you, Gemile. How was life in the Emperor's court?"  
  


Gemile holds Shalha's gaze for a moment. How much has she heard? Finally she says, "Lovely. It was lovely. I made friends, I saw a bit more of Cyrodiil. . ."  
  


"Variety is good for the soul." Shalha nods sagely. "Martina always knew that."  
  


"She's just set off to Summerset, now that you mention it," smiles Gemile, rubbing at the crook of her elbow.   
  


"Livia told me," says Shalha, and she may or may not be smiling in return. "And you, Lavinia? Still have your eye on the Mages' Guild?"  
  


"Four years and two hundred sixty-seven days," says Lavinia, as though that's a sufficient answer.  
  


Shalha chuckles. "I thought so." She turns her eye again to Valens. "And. . .?"  
  


"I'm joining the Legion, and you can go ahead and argue with me, my whole family already has, it won't change my mind," he rattles off, like he's rehearsed his answer.  
  


"Oh, my dear," says Shalha, leaning forward and putting a scaled hand on Valens'; to Gemile's great surprise, he doesn't squirm away. "You needn't defend yourself from this old trout. What can I possibly say to harm you in your ambition?"  
  


"I. . .well, good," sputters Valens, turning faintly red.  
  


"I hear," Gemile cuts in, "I hear that Count Indarys has sent guards here, to Smoothshade. Have you noticed any of that?"  
  


Shalha points at the nearby window. "That boy Afilus and two others. At your father's request, I hear."  
  


Gemile stands. "I'm sorry, I really should ask him about something. Will you get Valens and Lavinia started?"  
  


Shalha nods. Gemile ignores Valens' groan of 'Gem, _no,_ ' and darts outside.  
  


The guards haven't gone far. "Good afternoon!" she calls, and they turn around.   
  


"Hail, citizen," says one of the guards—a Redguard with a confident stance. "Can we be of assistance?"  
  


"I hope so. Which of you is Gregori?"  
  


"Who wants to know?" smirks the guard to the left, a young man with a ruddy sun-baked face. The Redguard woman elbows him. "Ow. Yes, I'm Gregori."  
  


"Can I have a word?" asks Gemile, looking meaningfully between Gregori and the other two.  
  


"All due respect," says the Redguard, stepping forward, "but we're on the clock, miss."  
  


"You're here on the request of the merchant Caridenius—my father, and the father of my brother, with whom Gregori here apparently traded a few words. . .It's a work-related concern," says Gemile lightly.   
  


The Redguard raises an eyebrow and gives Gregori a 'you're-on-your-own' look before departing.  
  


Gemile decides to try Mama's trick on the man, standing in silence with her arms crossed.  
  


"So are you the daughter that got roughed up by bandits? Your father gave the Count a Stahlrim blade to pay for the diversion of Cheydinhal's men to this hole-in-the-ground." Gregori makes a show of looking around. "Seems like wasted money to me."  
  


"Where on Nirn did my father get a Stahlrim blade?" Gemile demands, feeling her pulse skyrocket.  
  


Gregori grins—he's pleased to have touched a nerve, the slimy bastard. "Ha. Search me. Look, missy, whatever it is you think I did, I didn't."  
  


"My brother—my little brother of twelve, mind you—told me that you'd told _him_ to join the Legion."  
  


"Well, then, your brother's a right liar— looks a fair bit older than twelve, too, but that's here nor there." Gregori clears his throat. "Might have told him a bit about _my_ time in the Legion. That's no crime."  
  


"He told me, starry-eyed, about how your men would march through Skyrim in weather much colder than this."  
  


"And that's pure fact. When comes the part where I commit a crime?" scowls Gregori.  
  


"He's a _child_ . You can't go around saying those things to children. What if you had told him to join the cult of Mehrunes Dagon?"  
  


Gregori frowns deeper still, and his Colovian twang hardens. "Are you honestly comparing Legion service to Daedra worship, brat? Because if you are, and you can stop me if I'm wrong, but if you are, I could haul you up to the Cheydinhal dungeons this instant for speaking treason."  
  


"I—" Gemile stammers.  
  


"That's what I thought." He spits at her feet. "If your brother does end up enlisting, he'll be the one drop of honour in your entire cowardly bloodline, you spoilt Nibenay cunt." He turns briskly on his heel and heads in the same direction as the other guards.  
  


Gemile walks back to Shalha's place with long paces, clenching her fists and blinking away hot, embarrassed tears.  
  


Shalha is holding out a branch, pointing out the small blue flowers that run along it on both sides. Gemile squints. Arrowroot.  
  


"Hello, my dear," calls Shalha, "You can take the patch over there."

* * *

By the time the sun has peaked, each person has a pile of leeks, radishes, winter cabbages, and others whose names Gemile's forgotten. Shalha scurries inside and returns with a monstrous wicker basket in which she gathers the harvest. Then she ushers everyone inside and serves cold hibiscus tea in tall, murky glasses. Gemile watches sunbeams filter through the pink-red liquid.  
  


"I'd like to bring these," Shalha indicates the vegetables, "to Gold Leaf and sell them tomorrow morning."  
  


"You'd ought to come home with us, then! We have plenty of room now that Martina's out again," says Gemile with a tight smile.  
  


"You're very kind, Gemile. I think I will."  
  


Someone knocks. Shalha answers the door—on the other side is a squat Nibenese girl, with her hair cropped short. One of the mail couriers. "Hello, er, madam," she seems to guess, eyeing Shalha's apron. "Are Marcus Aemilianus' children here?"  
  


"That they are." Shalha gestures for the three of them to join her.   
  


"Oh, er. . ." The courier scans their faces. "You." She says, pointing at Gemile. "Your brother wants you at home post-haste."  
  


Gemile frowns. "Is there any particular reason, or does he just miss me?"  
  


"Someone has come calling for you. I quote, 'a terribly hirsute young elf'."  
  


"Did he give a name?"  
  


"Your pardon. I forgot to ask."  
  


"That's fine," says Gemile, shaking her head, "you may go."  
  


The girl doesn't need to be told twice.  
  


"Do you know any elf?" asks Valens.  
  


"I know loads," answers Gemile absentmindedly, looking out the window at the purpling sky. "Shalha, are we ready to leave?"  
  


"Let's sit and finish our tea. This visitor will keep for ten more minutes," Shalha decrees.  
  


With the tea finished, they head back along the same trail—Valens carrying the vegetables. He's sweaty and his arms tremble around the massive basket, but he insists on going it alone. By the time home is in sight, the sun is well down and the moon beginning to rise.  
  


Gemile casts a glance behind her. Valens is still fighting a losing battle against the vegetable basket, and Shalha has lifted a dozy Lavinia onto her shoulders. Damn it all. With quivering fingers, she taps the knocker against the door. Once. Twice. Thrice, with conviction. Then someone's light footsteps sound, and the door swings slowly inward.   
  


On the other side is J'hani—his hair is a little longer, he's taken the piercings out of his ears, but there's no mistaking him. Mama, Papa and Tatianus are gathered in the living room, but that hardly matters. She moves on instinct and, before she knows what's happening, she's wrapped her arms around him, and he rests his hands in the small of her back—he's gotten thinner still, she can count his ribs. Neither speaks.   
  


"If you don't _move_ and let me in, I'm going to spill these bloody vegetables," warns Valens.  
  


"Watch your tongue, my son," comes Papa's voice.  
  


Gemile realises she's screwed her eyes shut, and that she's weeping a little. She opens her eyes and separates herself from him slowly, reluctantly, and then moves out of Valens' way. He tramps into the kitchen with a huge, long-suffering sigh. Gemile rolls her eyes, and then locks eyes with J'hani and laughs.  
  


"It's good to see you," grins J'hani.  
  


"You too," sniffs Gemile, wiping her nose with the end of her scarf. Mama gives her a sharp look, but says nothing.  
  


"Come," Tatianus puts a hand on her shoulder. "Why don't we sit down." He leads them into the living room. Papa has already sat back down in his armchair.  
  


"Lavinia?" calls Mama.  
  


"Yes," says a tiny, exhausted voice.   
  


Mama brushes past them into the hallway to track it down. "Oh, Shalha!" she cries. "You needn't have stood there in the cold."  
  


"The _cold,_ " repeats J'hani very quietly. Gemile snorts, remembering the fiery cloak she bought from the fur merchant—months and months ago now.  
  


"I am not the spectacle of the evening, Livia." Shalha steps inside, gently putting down Lavinia. She catches J'hani's eye. "This mysterious visitor has come a longer way than I, I think."  
  


"Be that as it may, you are welcome under our roof," says Mama warmly. "I'd ought to put Lavinia to bed. Valens!" she calls.  
  


"Yes, Mama?" comes the reply from the kitchen.  
  


"Would you prepare us some coffee?"  
  


"Tea for me, thank you," says Shalha. "Coffee disagrees with me."  
  


"Tea for—"  
  


"I heard, Mama!"  
  


Mama shakes her head. "Come with me. I'll put Lavinia to bed, and point you to your room."  
  


"I hear Martina has left for Summerset," says Shalha. Their conversation fades from earshot as they traverse the courtyard.  
  


"So," grins Tatianus, "I gather you two know one another."  
  


Gemile looks over at J'hani, weighing her answer. Something golden glints in the corner of her eye. "My mantle!"  
  


"I relish the chance to wear it again, I won't lie," smiles J'hani.  
  


"Your brother asked you a question, Gemile." Papa crosses one leg over the other and leans back in his chair, watching them with a kind of apprehension.   
  


"Well, J'hani was one of the staff—a cleaner, right?"  
  


"Mm."  
  


"J'hani was a cleaner at the Imperial Palace. And for the record, Tatianus, the messenger said you called him an elf, he's a Khajiit."  
  


J'hani winces almost invisibly beside her.  
  


"Curious," says Tatianus.   
  


"You get all kinds of Khajiit," says Valens, holding a large silver tray bearing coffee and a rarely-used teapot. "Yazhir's got a sister that looks like a housecat, and a brother that looks like him," Valens jerks his head in J'hani's direction, "only no hair. Always gets taken for a wood elf."  
  


"Whatever happened to that boy?" asks Tatianus. "And let me take that tray from you." He stands up and takes it, setting the thing down on the table with barely a clink.   
  


Valens yawns into the back of his hand and falls onto the sofa next to Gemile. "He's with the Legion. He's fourteen, but he lied, and the recruiters don't know how to tell with a Khajiit, so there you go, only they wouldn't take him proper, so he's in one of the beastfolk units that get the worst equipment and no—"  
  


"So, J'hani," Papa cuts in, "were you born in Elsweyr? I don't hear the accent."  
  


"Born, yes," says J'hani uncomfortably. "I was raised in Cyrodiil."  
  


"Right," begins Gemile, glancing at him and then turning back. "I'm tired. I think it's time we all went to bed."  
  


"Shalha has Martina's room," Valens points out.  
  


"I'm sorry to have imposed," says J'hani quickly. "I have no problem at all taking the sofa, or—"  
  


"I'll move in with Lavinia for the night," offers Gemile. "Valens' old bed is still there."  
  


"Gem, if it's too small for me, it's—"  
  


"Hush. J'hani, you don't want to sleep on the sofa, I promise you."  
  


J'hani gives her a half-smile. "I've had worse."  
  


"Well, not tonight you won't. Coming all the way from Bruma to sleep on our sofa. . ."  
  


"Nibenese hospitality for you," grins Tatianus.   
  


"No. I'm taking Lavinia's room, and J'hani will have my room. And that's that." She stands. "I'll show you the way. And—" Gemile turns to Papa, and the cold feeling settles in her ribcage again. "Papa, if you've time tomorrow, I'd like to talk to you about something."  
  


"Any time, my daughter," says Papa, trying to work the scowl off his face and succeeding only partially.  
  


They say their 'good night's and head for the bedroom wing.  
  


"There, that's my room, " Gemile points. "Do you have a trunk or anything that needs to come this way?"  
  


"Nothing I need tonight," says J'hani, waving one hand and stifling a yawn with the other.  
  


They walk inside—Gemile sits down on the bed. "So what in the name of Akatosh are you _doing_ here?" she beams.  
  


"You asked me to come."  
  


"Yeah, months ago! I sort of assumed you'd—chosen your life in Bruma." Her eyes fill with tears again. J'hani puts an arm around her—a fluid, easy gesture—and then freezes when he realises what he's done. He starts to withdraw his hand from her side, but Gemile pins it in place with hers.  
  


J'hani sighs. "I don't think I could have made that decision. I didn't want to."  
  


"Did your mother like the coconut liquor all right?"  
  


"She said she'd had better in Elsweyr, but she says that about everything."  
  


"Where is your mother, anyway? Still—?"  
  


"Roaming the Heartlands. It was she who convinced me to go."  
  


"Do you miss her?"  
  


"Would you miss your mother?"  
  


"Point."  
  


J'hani eyes the bedroom door. "You know your father seemed to like me better when he thought I was a Bosmer freak of nature."  
  


"Oh, that's nonsense. Papa doesn't hate beastfolk."  
  


"I didn't say 'hate'. And please don't call us 'beastfolk'."  
  


"Right. Sorry." Gemile draws her legs up onto the bed and crosses them. "But what makes you think he doesn't like you?"  
  


"I was there for a bit while you were out, and he was quite warm to me. As it turns out, your brother had mistaken me for an elf. And did you see his face when you told him I was Khajiiti?"  
  


"No."  
  


J'hani shakes his head. "I know the look when I see it."  
  


"I think you're tired from the journey," says Gemile as gently as she can. "We'll talk more in the morning." She picks herself up off the bed and hugs a despondent J'hani goodnight before sneaking into Lavinia's room to sleep.


	21. 3E 387, Morning Star 6

Gemile wakes groggily—her window is a square of perfect darkness. She closes Lavinia's door behind her and tiptoes into the kitchen. Papa isn't awake yet. She sits at the kitchen table and pours herself a coffee, watching the slow sunrise. It feels like hours before the first birds start to chirp, and longer still until Papa stands in the doorway.  
  


"Gemile," he says, his mouth a thin line of disapproval. "I hope you haven't been waiting here for my sake."  
  


"Have you been reading my letters?"  
  


Papa's voice dies in his throat. "Letters?" he echoes.  
  


"My letters to J'hani—and his to me, for that matter. I'm not simple." Gemile takes a deep breath. "I have—"  
  


"Gemile."  
  


"Let me speak, please. I have a Stahlrim blade that I keep in the top drawer of my dresser, behind all the other stuff. If I went up there right now, Papa, I wonder, would I find it?"  
  


"A Stahlrim blade?" Papa clasps his hands calmly. "A bauble from his Imperial Majesty?"  
  


"You know  _ exactly _ who gave me that dagger."  
  


Papa raises an eyebrow. "I truly can't begin to guess. Although your detective work is charming. Now please, my girl," he sighs, "I know how much you've been through, but you cannot mean to take it all out on others. Break your fast with tea this morning. You'll settle down."  
  


"Settle down? Why can't you admit it? You sold it off!  _ My _ dagger, to pay for a detachment of guards! Count Indarys himself will attest to that!"  
  


"Gemile, this is terribly—"  
  


"And why? To keep bandits off the roads, because I'd been attacked on my way to Gold Leaf—"  
  


"I had no—"  
  


"But I didn't  _ tell _ anyone about that! Not you. Not Mama—not Tatianus—"  
  


"And why not?" hisses Papa, thumping the table with his fist. Gemile jumps. "You leave me very little choice when you refuse to  _ speak _ to me."  
  


"No one—no one forced you to go through my private letters."  
  


"Private, what! 'Oh J'hani, today I ate rice and fish for breakfast'. 'Oh J'hani, let me tell you about my layabout father'. 'Oh J'hani, please find enclosed this bauble I bought with my layabout father's bitterly-earned money'! 'Oh J'hani, come and join me in leeching the last—the last dregs of life from my layabout bloody father—"  
  


Gemile blinks, her mind reeling as if he'd struck her.  
  


"You are an extraordinarily clever girl, Gemile Marciana, and I'll never see why you feel the need to act as though you haven't any head on your fucking shoulders," Papa spits, still trembling from his outburst. "The  _ gall _ to betrothe my purse and my knowledge to some Khajiit boy I'd never laid eyes upon— without ever asking my consent! My  _ consent, _ if not my blessing!"  
  


Shalha used to say that forgiveness is easier won than permission. Gemile shakes her head, trying to form words, to say something biting and get the last laugh, but all she manages is a ridiculous sob that makes Papa's murderous expression flicker for a moment.  
  


"I want you and your pet out of my sight until you can act your age." Papa looks her in the eye. "Go on. Go. Retrieve him and go."  
  


Gemile unroots herself from the floor and trudges outside to cross the courtyard. To her surprise, J'hani is already standing in the doorway of her room. He pulls her into a quick hug.  
  


"We have to—" begins Gemile, her voice thick and stupid with tears.  
  


"I know. I heard. I've room in my trunk for whatever you need to bring."  
  


"Gem! For the love— _ Gem, _ you can't just pack off again!" cries a disheveled Tatianus, emerging from a corridor, hurriedly straightening his shirt.  
  


"Divines, is this whole house awake?" Gemile sighs.  
  


Tatianus scoffs. "The two of you screaming at one another loud enough to wake the dead. . .you can't leave the little ones to me."  
  


"They have parents, Tati."  
  


"They—" Tatianus looks out the window and curses under his breath. "That's not the point."  
  


"Well, I'm leaving, and you can do with that what you like." Gemile stomps into her room and scoops an armful of clothes from her dresser, gives it to J'hani, and takes another armful herself.   
  


She pushes past Tatianus on her way down, ignoring his plea of 'don't do this'. The clothes just barely fit in the trunk.   
  


Mama catches them on their way out. "You," she says, pointing a lacquered nail straight at J'hani. "Have you good intentions with my daughter?"  
  


"Intentions. . .I. . ." J'hani catches Gemile's eye and smiles his weary, indestructible smile. "I have to think so."  
  


Mama shakes her head, sighing deeply. "Gemile Marciana, this is a fool's errand. But you are a grown woman, and I have no will, nor power nor  _ time _ to run after you."  
  


"Mama, you can't be upset with me," snivels Gemile, fighting the urge to crawl into her arms and forget the world.  
  


"I can and I will be. I hate to see another daughter off." Mama presses a heavy purse into her hands and takes off her own shawl, draping it brusquely over Gemile's shoulders. "Gods go with you, then," she sighs, and she holds J'hani's gaze for a long, tense moment. "If you bring harm to my daughter, I will kill you." Simple as that.  
  


Then she goes back into the house, and they head out, carrying J'hani's battered trunk between them.   
  


". . .Past the merchant square is the stables," begins Gemile. "We can take a carriage into Cheydinhal from there."  
  


"And then what?"  
  


"I've always wanted to see the inside of the Cornerclub."  
  


J'hani sighs.  
  


" _ Bonam diem, _ " a sandy-haired Nord stablehand greets them when they approach.   
  


" _ Pax tecum, _ " says Gemile. "Can you take us to Cheydinhal?"  
  


"Not me, miss. I'll fetch the guy." He darts inside; an Orc with long, sleek hair emerges from the house.  
  


"Good morning," says Gemile. "We—"  
  


"Cheydinhal, aye," says the Orc, waving a large hand. "Come on, then." He walks them around to the back side of the stables and wastes no time drawing up the carriage. When the horses are tied, he leans across from the driver's seat and gestures for the trunk. Gemile and J'hani struggle to hoist it up, but the Orc takes it with one hand and lays it in the front quarter of the passengers' section.  
  


J'hani offers her his hand, and helps her into the carriage. Gemile opens Mama's coinpurse and begins to count out septims.  
  


"'S twenty for the two of you." The Orc holds out his hand, and Gemile lays the coins in it. He doesn't bother counting them, only spurs the horses into a trot.  
  


"So," says J'hani, as the clay houses and towers of Gold Leaf Moor shrink behind them. "Is this how you imagined the course of your day?"  
  


Gemile shrugs. "I wasn't sure what to expect. But I'm not going to find out my father's been reading my letters and stealing my property and just sit on my hands."  
  


"I wasn't trying to reprimand you."  
  


"Perhaps you should," snips Gemile. "I would, if I'd traveled all the way to Bruma and then gotten evicted after the first night."  
  


"What's done is done. It's not your fault, I don't think, Gem."  
  


"Not—!"  
  


"Mostly not. I don't know. What would you like me to say?"  
  


"I. . ." Gemile shrugs again, emphatically, by way of an answer.  
  


"Then what good is there in squabbling? I—" He takes a breath, as if steeling himself. "Listen. I took a leap of faith in coming to find you. I may as well take another. Especially—"  
  


Gemile smiles. "Especially what?"  
  


"Well—you know. Nothing."  
  


"Oh, be bold. Go on. I'm listening."  
  


J'hani is slowly turning beet-red. "You aren't. . .a bad— travelling partner, all things considered."  
  


Gemile laughs. "Say that again in a little while, and see if you still believe it."  
  


They reach Cheydinhal in perhaps an hour's time. Yawning into the crook of his elbow, the Orc driver offers to carry the trunk into the inn; "'s the slow time of the morning anyway".   
  


"Thank you, that would be lovely," says Gemile. "We're going to the Cornerclub."  
  


The Orc raises his eyebrows. "Dark elf place? All right."  
  


J'hani shoots Gemile a look, but doesn't protest.  
  


Gemile marvels at everything as they walk; the city feels suddenly new to her, each window and each cobblestone bursting with some hidden secret. The dark roofs of the taverns and guildhouses issue a silent challenge—the enormous temple of Arkay looms like a faraway parent.  
  


"I feel a bit giddy. Is that strange?" She can't keep the laugh from her voice.  
  


"Yes," grins J'hani, putting an arm around her shoulders just in case. "You are terribly strange."  
  


The sign dangling above the doorstep of the Cornerclub is in Daedric, and Gemile briefly wonders whether it has some other name in the Dunmer tongue. She turns the cold copper doorknob—J'hani holds the door for the Orc, who smiles briefly at him.  
  


"Mornin'," says the publican, a tall, muscular Dunmer woman with a short fuzz of white hair and black tattoos that cover both her arms. Her gaze skims past Gemile and J'hani and settles on the Orc. "Mornin' to you, Durgz. Mazte on the house?"  
  


"Not today. Should be going."  
  


"Thank you for your help," says Gemile politely.  
  


J'hani digs in his shirt pockets for something, and produces a few golden septims among a small pile of silver trading coins. "May I—?" The Orc—Durgz—smiles again and takes the coin. "For the trunk and—everything, thank you."  
  


Durgz winks at the publican and leaves with a short two-fingered salute, just as Valens likes to do.  
  


"And who," says the publican, turning back to them with a distinctly unimpressed expression, "are you two?"  
  


"Gemile Marciana Caridenius," says Gemile. The Dunmer woman raises a disdainful eyebrow at her.  
  


"Er—J'hani Rouvandi," says J'hani quickly.   
  


"All right. My name's Tillari Ofemman. You're not much like my other customers."  
  


"Will that be a problem?" asks Gemile, and Tillari raises the same eyebrow in the same manner as before.   
  


". . .Not if you've got the coin." She leans across the bar on her forearms—the muscles in her shoulders shift.  
  


Gemile takes out Mama's coinpurse. "How much per night?"  
  


Tillari shrugs one shoulder. "Call it ten drakes. If you want the one room, that is." She looks meaningfully between them.  
  


Gemile and J'hani swap looks. ". . .I think that's best," says J'hani tentatively.  
  


"All right, we'll take one room. Can I pay a few nights ahead?"  
  


"Sure." Tillari watches her with calm crimson eyes, but doesn't move otherwise. Uncertainly, Gemile counts out fifty septims and makes a small pile of them on the counter. Tillari counts them lazily, sliding the coins from one hand to the other with the pad of her thumb. "You're five short."  
  


"Oh, I'm sorry. Here, I—"  
  


And Tillari grins, baring tobacco-stained teeth. "Just yanking your hackle-lo." She takes a large key from her pocket, rubs a bit of grease off on her trousers, and hands it over. "Second on your left. Fair warning, my patrons get loud in the evenings."  
  


"Thanks," says Gemile shortly, taking the key and heading for the stairs.  
  


"Gem—"  
  


"I'll take that trunk," says Tillari, picking it up with a kind of disinterested ease.   
  


J'hani clears his throat. "Thank you."  
  


She sees them upstairs—Gemile feels her face flush as she struggles with the rusty key, and Tillari sets down the trunk and places her large hand over Gemile's, giving the key a quick, forceful quarter-turn. She takes up the trunk again and pushes the door with the worn toe of her boot, then lays it down on the carpet and heads back downstairs, muttering 'just shout if you need me'.  
  


Gemile casts a glance around the room. It's surprisingly well-kept: the bed will comfortably hold two, and the spread as well as the carpets and drapes are a deep green, embroidered in a coiling pattern she imagines is typical of Morrowind. The climbing sun beams through the window, making the room look altogether more hopeful.  
  


"What do you think?" she says, thumbing at her nose piercing.  
  


J'hani laughs exasperatedly. "I think it's fine, Gem, my concern is about what we're going to  _ do. _ "  
  


"Hm. We might take a look around the city."  
  


"I don't mean for today. I mean—" J'hani takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. "Do you leave home often, after an argument?"  
  


"No," says Gemile. "We have rows, obviously, but no one's ever left the house because of one until I came back from the Imperial City. There was one about Martinus when my father left for a few months—"  
  


"A few  _ months? _ —"  
  


"—and this is the second one. I think it's time I moved out," Gemile finishes brightly.  
  


"And your siblings? Your brother didn't seem—"  
  


"I don't much care what Tatianus thinks. All he ever does is go along with Papa, anyway, no wonder he doesn't get it."   
  


"And the young ones?"  
  


"They'll manage," says Gemile tersely, trying to make herself believe it. "But if you're that desperate about logistics. . .er. How about this," she begins, "can you play any instruments?"  
  


J'hani snorts. "You want to make a busker of me?"  
  


"A  _ minstrel. _ "  
  


"Well, no. Sorry. Where would I ever find a lute?"  
  


"A lute, specifically?"  
  


"For the sake of argument, I mean," mumbles J'hani, looking elsewhere. Gemile stares him down, a curious smile pulling at her lips. "I know a handful of songs," he admits.  
  


"Well, that's a start, isn't it!"  
  


"Perhaps as a last alternative to starvation, but otherwise no. No, it is not a start."  
  


"All right, cagey," huffs Gemile, making a mental note anyway. "I can sew, sort of, and. . .hm. I can. . ." she trails off.  
  


"You can read and write. Something to do with books?"  
  


"Reading and writing is hardly a skill."  
  


J'hani shrugs. "I think you'd be surprised."  
  


"I suppose I could copy leaflets if we get really desperate. Let's see. . ." She sighs and folds her arms. "You know I wasn't joking when I wrote you about wanting to be a merchant. I just don't know the first bloody thing about it."  
  


"I imagine you need a lot of connections. . .the idea is to sell people something they can't find anywhere else, is it not?"  
  


"My father had none when he started out. Never shuts up about building his own fortune and that lark. So. . .it can be done, at least."  
  


"My mother might know some traders who deal in Khajiiti goods. I could write her."  
  


"Can—can she. . .that is, can she open letters? With her—?"  
  


"She is resourceful."  
  


"So we'll get started with that tonight. For now," Gemile finds herself bouncing on her feet with anticipation, "can we please see the city?"  
  


They change—or, Gemile makes J'hani face the wall as she changes, into a dress she's glad she managed to grab on her way out, a red layered thing with gold detailing. J'hani throws on the mantle she gave him, with the blue side out.  
  


"You know you'd ought to do something with your hair," says Gemile, cocking her head as she looks him over. "Did you get tired of the earrings?"  
  


J'hani rubs the back of his neck. "One of the places in which I spent the night on my way here. . .on the Red Ring Road, I think. I woke up without them."  
  


" _ What? _ And you didn't ask the innkeeper?"  
  


"Unless she had stolen them herself, I don't think I would have gotten very far." He sighs. "It was my fault. Wearing out golden earrings is asking to be robbed."  
  


"That's bollocks. There shouldn't be any place in Cyrodiil where you need to worry about getting your earrings stolen while you're fucking wearing them!"  
  


J'hani smiles. "Gemile, sometimes you make me feel terribly old and jaded."  
  


"Are you calling me childish? You're younger than me!"  
  


"Not childish!" J'hani holds up his hands. "Sheltered, maybe. Just a little bit."  
  


Gemile scowls at him. "I'm not sheltered. Am I sheltered?"  
  


J'hani makes a show of avoiding her gaze. She shoves him, and he snickers. "I'm sorry!"  
  


"No, you're not."  
  


"Well. Not really, no."  
  


Gemile sighs, biting back a smile. Then she meets J'hani's eye and breaks into giggles. "Shall we go?"  
  


"Let's."  
  


They head out, passing Tillari on the way, and once they're outside, Gemile stands for a moment and takes it in again. Just before them is the Corbolo, broad and glittering, as though it followed her from home. The temple of the Order of Arkay catches her eye for a second time today, beckoning. "Can we go in there?"  
  


"In the temple? I've never really been inside one." J'hani shuffles his feet. "I wouldn't know what to do."  
  


"You don't need to do anything, there's no service on. It's sort of just a big library. They're in with the Mages Guild, I think."  
  


"And people can just. . .walk in?"  
  


" _ Yes, _ " says Gemile. "Come on, you'll like it."  
  


J'hani raises no further objections; they cross the bridge and enter the temple through one of the side doors, which is propped open with someone's broken shoe. Gemile watches his jaw drop as they go inside. The place is filled to the brim with books and scrolls, piled precariously into endless shelves. In the far end of the building is a bay window of opaque stained glass, the altar a tiny enclave in what otherwise might be mistaken for an impressive library. In every nook and cranny is a member of Arkay's Order, buried in some tome or other, or talking shop with the other priests.  
  


"If you want to piss these guys off really badly," whispers Gemile, "ask them if they have any books about necromancy. Lavinia did that once—I thought they were going to ban us!"  
  


"I would advise," says someone behind her, making her jolt, "that you take that talk elsewhere. We do not joke about necromancy." The speaker is a high elf, short by their standards, dressed in rags and with a shock of orange hair gathered into a tight ponytail. Maybe too tight. His face has a perpetually pinched quality.  
  


"And who are you?" says Gemile, even as J'hani elbows her.  
  


"Errandil. Living Saint of Arkay," says the elf calmly, and Gemile feels her heart freeze.   
  


"Oh. I beg your pardon, sir," Gemile stumbles, "I took you for a beggar."  
  


"Then you're very quick to look down on a beggar. Perhaps some time here would do you good." Errandil frowns slightly. "Was it your sister who asked us about the evil art? Livia's little girl?"  
  


"Yes, I should think it was," says Gemile, minding that she keeps eye contact, even as her face burns from the scolding. "I'm sorry. She has. . .she's curious about everything. She doesn't mean anything by it."  
  


"I hope indeed that she doesn't. We encourage the pursuit of knowledge in all things, of course, but. . ." Errandil shakes his head, ending his thought there. "Could I ask what brings you to us?"  
  


Gemile flushes. Suddenly just wanting to see the Chapel seems like a woefully lacking excuse. "I—well, I—my friend here has never seen Cheydinhal before. I thought. . .this would be a nice place to start."  
  


"I'm searching for reading on Ta'agra music," puts in J'hani. Thank the Gods.  
  


"Ah," says Errandil, brightening. "I can show you our selection." He turns on his heel and gestures for them to follow. Gemile shoots J'hani a look of gratitude behind his back. "We have some writing on Khajiiti culture, volumes which should contain plenty of information on musical traditions. . .although no bespoke texts, so there will be some digging required.  _ Perhaps _ some sheet music, although I can tell you already that it's most likely on 'loan' to the Chantry in Kvatch." As he finishes his diatribe, he leads them into a mostly barren aisle with a few books bound in deep reds and oranges. J'hani touches one of the spines, lightly.  
  


Errandil pulls five or six heavy books from the shelves and piles them into J'hani's arms. "Here you are. You're very welcome to stay and browse. If you're wanting to take the books elsewhere, you need to speak with a Curate."  
  


"I think I will stay here for the moment, thank you," says J'hani, struggling to set the books down gently onto a nearby end table.  
  


"Excellent. I sincerely hope that you find what you're looking for," says Errandil, turning to leave. Gemile touches his shoulder, before she's realised what she's doing, and her face heats up again as he looks at her expectantly.  
  


"Sorry. I just. . .I was wondering if you could point me to any. . .that is. . ." She digs her nails into her palm. Fool girl, stuttering like a child. Errandil is patient—his dark, placid eyes bore into hers, and she tries again. "I was wondering if you had anything more practical. On the topic of. . .trade? That is, starting a—trading. . .company, or. . .a shop, or—"  
  


Errandil smiles for the first time. "This way."  
  


He leads her into a much more populated aisle filled with books of various lengths, colours and ages. As if it were muscle memory, he pulls out a greyish book so thick and square it's nearly a cube, with a felt cover—Gemile catches the word 'guide' in Old Cyrodilic before he flips to a page about a third of the way in. "Capital. . .rent. . .taking out a loan. . ." He flips ten or so more pages. "Permit. . .legalities. . ." He shuts the book again. "This one's very concerned with the paperwork. Important, of course, as theory always is, but you also want accounts by real, successful people. Here:  _ The Buying Game _ .  _ A Trader's Eye For Fashion _ —even if it isn't your field, it is always useful to read an expert's perspective. Or two, or ten." Errandil names more books, thin little things with soft bindings, even some pamphlets, until he has a pile he's satisfied with.  
  


Gemile sets aside the pamphlets and opens the grey felt book to a random page. She wrinkles her nose. "It's Colovian Old Cyrodilic."  
  


"Does that impede your understanding?"  
  


"I can read it perfectly well. But it's primitive."  
  


"By the same coin, many Colovians would consider the Nibenese dialect bastardised. For my part," says Errandil, folding his hands, "I think both are beautiful."  
  


_ You would think that, _ Gemile nearly says, but, thankfully, she stops herself. "How old is this?"  
  


"No more than half a century, I think. It's been translated into vernacular Cyrodilic, but that version is on loan,  _ quite _ unfortunately."   
  


Gemile bites her tongue. How infuriating he is for a man called a 'living saint'.  
  


She sighs. "I'll go speak with a Curate, then. Thank you—er—"  
  


"No title necessary. 'Errandil' will do."  
  


"Thank you, then, Errandil," says Gemile, feeling her face flush from the wrongness of it.  
  


He nods and walks off briskly, in the direction of the altar. Gemile gathers the pile of books, excerpts and leaflets into her arms and patrols the main hall for a Curate.   
  


She stops one of the orange-clad priests, her arms aching, and he points her to a petite Redguard woman with her hair pulled into a perfect, round bun. "Hello," says the Curate, smiling brightly. "Can I help you?"  
  


At least an hour must have passed by the time she's signed off painstakingly on each book, and endured the Curate's endless lectures on proper maintenance and policy. "I would also recommend," she says at last, "that you stop at the altar of Zenithar in the north end of the Chapel. He is known to reward the diligent and the industrious."  
  


"Thank you," says Gemile shortly. "I'll do that." And she excuses herself, peering into the aisles on her left until she spots J'hani cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by half-read books. "Having fun?" she grins.  
  


"Yes, surprisingly. I relish the chance to practice reading Ta'agra again."  
  


"Are you not fluent?" she asks as he gets to his feet.  
  


"In speaking, yes. . ." J'hani trails off. "I see you've found one or two books as well."  
  


"Help me." Gemile's hands go slack around the tower of books. Her arms are rice noodles. Laughing, J'hani helps her set it down safely on the end table.  
  


"What's this?" he says, picking up the top one. "The Dangers of Necromancy?"  
  


"What?" Gemile brushes the hair from her forehead before pulling it into a ponytail. "Damn it, he snuck that in there. He thinks I'm a cultist or something. Look at the next one."  
  


"The Caravanier's Manifesto."  
  


"It's more of an autobiography. Listen," Gemile stretches her arms, "if my father isn't going to be any help, I thought we could try this."  
  


"Try. . .?"  
  


"They're books on trading. Or— by. . .traders."  
  


J'hani nods. "That is much closer to a plan than we were this morning. Shall I help you carry them?"  
  


"Take half and come with me. We still need Zenithar's blessing."

* * *

Having dropped the books off safely, Gemile and J'hani wander the Market District for a while. Someone at a stall is selling rotis rolled into paper cones and filled with spiced chicken. "Don't you think that smells good?" she asks J'hani.  
  


"You know we haven't had breakfast," he reminds her by way of an answer.  
  


"Ooh, do you want to share one?"  
  


"I would like that."  
  


They buy a cone and head south to the lush willow-banks, where a grassy little island sits in the middle of the river, bridges to the two districts on its sides. A tall, spindly Bosmer, practically a willow tree herself, is plucking deftly at a long sitar. The tune is Nibenese, but she sings over it in what Gemile thinks must be the Bosmer tongue, although she's never heard it spoken. They settle down to watch—thank Arkay for her ponytail, so she doesn't have to watch her long hair as she sits.  
  


"You know," says J'hani, leaning into her side a little, "there are instruments just like that in Elsweyr. Not so many strings, I think, but similar."  
  


Gemile hums her acknowledgement. She tears a piece of bread from the cone and scoops up some chicken. It reminds her that she isn't far from home.  
  


The Bosmer finishes her song and smiles briefly at them before she strikes up a different melody.  
  


"See, that could be you," Gemile nudges J'hani.  
  


"Not on my life," he replies.  
  


Three or four songs later, Gemile offers the Bosmer woman a handful of septims.   
  


"Thank you," she smiles. Her speaking voice is as silvery-clear as her singing.  
  


Back at the Cornerclub, a few Dunmer have filtered in early for their evening drink.   
  


"Pretty little Cyrodiil," rumbles an old elf. "Lose your way to the Bridge Inn, my girl?"  
  


Tillari berates him sharply in their language—at least, it sounds that way. The elf quickly decides that he doesn't want the trouble, and returns to his tankard.  
  


"I think I'm going to go upstairs, and look at those books while I still have some daylight," says Gemile.  
  


"All right. I'll stay down here. I want to see about getting some paper and a pen. To write my mother," he clarifies, quietly, when Gemile raises an eyebrow at him.  
  


"See you tonight, then." Gemile yawns into the back of her hand and ascends the creaky stairs to their room. The grey felt book seems to stare her down the instant she enters, and, sighing, she sets it on the desk and flips to the first page. She can't take her mind off the clunky, primeval Colovian Old Cyrodilic, and gives up after a few pages—she's about to start reading through the biographies instead when there's a brisk knock at the door. "J'hani?" she calls.  
  


"No, ma'am!"  
  


Frowning, she opens the door.  
  


"Hi," says the visitor—the small, orange-robed Curate with her hair in the same perfect bun. "Curate Sidonie. We met this afternoon. Errandil sent me with a message for you."  
  


"How did you know I was here?"  
  


Sidonie lets out a short, barking laugh. "Ha! It wasn't easy. I wasn't going to say anything, but honestly, the Cornerclub was the last place in the city I was expecting you to be! No matter though," she says, waving her hands, "no matter. Here!" She holds out a note, just a dash of ink on a ragged piece of parchment. The penmanship is gorgeous, even at a glance.   
  


"Thank you, Curate Sidonie," says Gemile, taking the note. "Please thank Errandil as well," she quickly adds.  
  


Sidonie bows her head and flits away.  


_ Miss Caridenius, I remembered just after you and your friend departed that I have a few acquaintances in this city with experience relevant to the merchant's trade. I have enclosed a short directory for you to use at your discretion. May it prove useful.  
  
_

_ —Errandil  
_

On the other side is a list of names, none of which she recognises, some emphasised with arrows. Interesting.


	22. 3E 387, Sun's Dawn 12

Gemile wrings the front of her dress as she looks around the hall. A portrait of the Count, more than life-sized, leers from behind the throne.   
  


J'hani touches her arm. "You'll wrinkle your dress."  
  


"Bugger the dress," she says tersely. But she releases her iron grip and studies the fabric as she smoothes the creases out of it. Her heart sinks. "Damn it all to Oblivion, I've got a grass stain."  
  


"What?"  
  


"I went to an audience with the Count of Cheydinhal in a stained dress."  
  


"Gem—" J'hani takes her by the shoulders, faces her and looks her over. "I see nothing."  
  


"Right  _ there! _ " She jabs her finger, as if she could poke the little green smudge out of existence with enough force.  
  


J'hani squints. "Some stain. The size of a pea, perhaps."  
  


"That's not the point!"  
  


"Unless Count Cheydinhal is an eagle, you can relax."  
  


Gemile sighs and shakes her head, giving her dress a few more cursory wipes and then leaving it alone.  
  


"Vinegar and bread soda are good for grass stains," says someone from the far end of the room. A pale-skinned Nibenese boy holding a ratty broom. He comes closer. "The sooner you get to it, the better, though."  
  


"It's none of your concern," snaps Gemile.  
  


"All right, sorry," says the boy, holding up his free hand in an exaggerated gesture of peace. "I'll go see what's taking the steward so long. My lady," he adds, bowing out of the room.  
  


"You might have been a bit kinder," suggests J'hani.  
  


"He might have—kept his nose out of the affairs of his betters!"  
  


"His betters?" She doesn't like the look he gives her.  
  


Gemile bites her lip. "We had servants at home now and again. They knew not to speak out of turn that way."  
  


"He was offering advice!"  
  


"If I'd wanted any, I'd have asked."  
  


"Are your servants all. . .'beastfolk'? Like that Argonian woman?" asks J'hani quietly.  
  


"Shalha's not—!" Gemile sputters, but she can't quite finish her thought. "My father preferred the staff to be Nibenese.  _ Don't _ look at me that—"  
  


"Let's finish this later on." J'hani nods stiffly in the direction of the stairs—the Count is descending, tailed by his steward and the boy with the broom. He's dressed as lavishly as she remembers, and seems to be wearing the exact same disinterested expression.  
  


Unsure what else to do, she curtseys as he steps onto the stone floor and takes a seat in front of his portrait. J'hani bows at the waist, the way people do for the Emperor.  
  


"As you were," says Count Indarys, and they straighten up again. "You may speak."  
  


Everything she's practiced saying, every point and every argument, slips from her mind like the small slick insides of the fish she used to help Mama clean. "You might. . .recall, my lord, that we met at a banquet of the Emperor's some months ago."  
  


" _ You?  _ Whatever would bring you to the Imperial City?"  
  


"I was the Empress' handmaiden at the time, my lord."  
  


"Dispense with your 'my lord'," says the Count, waving an idle hand. "Make your point."  
  


Gemile starts to fidget with her dress again, but catches herself and clasps her hands behind her back. "We're here today to ask your leave to open a small storefront in the western market district."  
  


"Is that so? And what, exactly, are you intending to deal in?"  
  


She shoots J'hani a look. He nods and speaks up: "Specialty goods from Elsweyr. To start."  
  


"An interesting foundation for a trade empire. . ."  
  


"Leave to speak, Count Indarys?" says the steward; a tall, brawny Nibenese woman in a deep purple gown and with her hair slung over her shoulder in a tight plait.  
  


"Yes, yes."  
  


"Suria Quaspus," says the steward, glancing at Gemile. " _ Te noscere gaudeo. _ "  
  


"Oh—I've heard the name Quaspus before. . ."  
  


"My aunt Solea is the head of the Elder Council," says Suria.  
  


"Ah."  
  


"Now. Cheydinhal is actually lacking a robust vendor of foreign imports." Suria looks sidelong at the Count. "A decent chunk of the upper class, that is to say, those parties interested in foreign wares, must currently go out of their way if they want to procure, say, a trinket from Hammerfell."  
  


The Count leans in his seat, supporting his head with a jewelled hand. "And do you think, Quaspus, that these two are at all equipped to fill that niche?"  
  


Suria crosses her arms and studies them both carefully. "No, not really."  
  


"My father—" blurts Gemile.  
  


"Marcus Aemilianus Caridenius of Gold Leaf Moor. I did a bit of research," Suria interrupts her, without missing a beat. "Your father's achievements tell me nothing of your merit, miss Caridenius. And as for you. . ." She turns her gaze on J'hani. "J'hani Rouvandi. I found records of your living in Bruma for some time, but before that, nothing. No family."  
  


"I—"  
  


"Not that that's unusual at all. It's very difficult keeping consistent census records in a place the size of Cyrodiil, and. . ." They're all watching her now, the Count with a look of amusement. "Will you say for me the phrase 'Sunflowers are best at the end of Sun's Height'?"  
  


". . .Sunflowers are best at the end of Sun's Height," repeats a befuddled J'hani.  
  


"Thank you." To the Count she says: "He certainly speaks like a Cyrod, you see."  
  


"Impressive, Quaspus, but I'd like your verdict sometime this year. We have other petitioners," Indarys reminds her.  
  


"Yes. I would cautiously suggest a sort of trial period, perhaps six months, during which you may prove your competence. . .or your lack thereof, as the case may be. As well as granting you leave to operate in a certain location, we may choose to invest capital into your business, and I can provide a few contacts who may be helpful. . .but this is all conditional."  
  


"And the condition?" asks J'hani.  
  


"Just Elsweyr is far too narrow a market. You'll want to look into more popular items from the other provinces as well, take weapons from Skyrim or jewelry from High Rock. I wonder. . .Ofemman more or less has the Morrowind imports on lock, but. . ." she looks meaningfully at the Count.  
  


"No," he says, simply. "So long as she pays her dues like every other citizen, I've no reason to undercut her business."  
  


"All right. Then, that aside, how do you feel about our proposal?"  
  


"I think—" Gemile cuts herself off, looking first at J'hani, and when she catches the same glint in his eye that he must see in hers, she goes on. "I think that sounds excellent."  
  


"Happy to hear it. I'll send someone by with a contract draft and to put the final dots on the i's, as it were. We look forward to cooperating with you," Suria rattles off. "Now, if there's nothing else. . ."  
  


"Actually," says Gemile, her face burning, "there's a request I'd like to make."  
  


"Speak, then," says Indarys.  
  


She clears her throat. "Count Indarys. I've heard that a Stahlrim dagger came into your possession recently."  
  


"And what of it?"  
  


"Is there any chance I could buy it from you?"  
  


"Why not ask your father to rescind his gift?" Suria puts in. Gemile's respect for her is quickly curdling to dislike.  
  


"It was a family dispute. The dagger was my property, and sold off without my knowledge."  
  


"Then your quarrel is with him, and not me," says Indarys, rolling his eyes. "I won't play the middle-man for so petty an argument."  
  


"I'm asking for a fair exchange. I'll pay the dagger's full value to have it back."  
  


"That's about twenty thousand septims, in generous terms," says Suria. "White steel with a Stahlrim spine and a hilt of ebony. Not cheap."  
  


". . .oh."  
  


Indarys sighs heavily. "I'm not in the business of charity work, but I'll hold onto the thing. Should you come into the money. . .ever, I'll return it to you."  
  


"I suppose that's all I can ask," says Gemile tightly. "Thank you for your time, my lord. Miss Quaspus."

* * *

"Gemile—" J'hani begins as they step out into the courtyard.  
  


"I don't want to hear it. Can we just be happy?"  
  


"Can we?"  
  


"Arkay’s hands," groans Gemile. "You always do that."  
  


"What?"  
  


"That—second-guessing. Look, if you want to say something, say it."  
  


"Do you not see any problem with the way you spoke to that servant?"  
  


Gemile bites the inside of her cheek. "It's what everyone in my family does. Why are you so bothered?"  
  


J'hani stops in his tracks and looks her in the face. "You know I was a servant at the palace."  
  


"So was I!"  
  


He scoffs. "No, you were the Empress' personal handmaiden. Sent to the palace by your family to pick up a bit of charm."  
  


"And?"  
  


"And nothing. I said nothing." He sets off again, keeping a pace he knows is too fast for her.  
  


"Was that all?" she says, jogging a little to keep up.  
  


"I don't think anyone should have to prompt you to be kind!" calls J'hani over his shoulder. "What does it cost you?"  
  


"D'you think it's just my family, because—"  
  


"No! No, I don't think that. And I'm not going to waste any more breath arguing this. Be as callous as you like, Gemile, if that makes you happy."  
  


"It doesn't make me happy, it's just—how things are done."  
  


"All right."  
  


"For gods' sakes, J'hani—"  
  


"No. I've had quite enough today."  
  


Gemile studies him carefully, but he's avoiding her eye, a mild frown fixed on his face. "Well, fine. So about the shop?"  
  


"Mm."  
  


"What do you think?"  
  


"I think we should pass by the building on our way back."  
  


"Near the statue of Galerion?" Gemile squints southward in the direction of the market district. "We don't know that they're going to give us that one."  
  


"Unless they want us to build one from the ground up, it's going to be that one, Gem." He tugs at the seam near his shoulder. "There are no other vacant buildings in the district."  
  


"I find that difficult to believe."  
  


J'hani shrugs. "Believe what you like. Will you come with me?"  
  


"Yeah."  
  


Gemile pauses for a moment before descending, and looks out as far as she can, to the freshly risen sun and the endless green expanse of trees and plants beneath it. Then she follows J'hani back down to the city.  
  


Part of the reason she argued, Gemile thinks, poking at the grey, half-rotted planks that have been nailed across the door, was because she has no desire at all to work out of this hovel. "It's condemned," she says, her lip curling as she looks the building over.  
  


J'hani says nothing, only braces his foot against the side of the old shop and starts to pry away one of the planks.  
  


"Oi! We're going to get picked up for vandalism!"  
  


"We're only taking a look," says J'hani, grunting as he pulls the plank free, and laying it down carefully.   
  


"Let me help," says Gemile, taking hold of the next one. "If it gets us out of here sooner."  
  


The board comes loose all at once, and she and J'hani tumble to the ground in a pile. "We overshot that one," he grins.  
  


"No, d'you really think?" Gemile grumbles, leaning against the wall of the old shop as she finds her footing. "If a guard finds us, we can kiss our agreement with Quaspus goodbye, I hope that's occurred to you."  
  


"It has occurred to me." The last plank is only held in place by a single nail, and comes out like a loose tooth. J'hani tries the doorknob, and the thing squeals as it gives way, revealing a dark, dusty interior.   
  


Gemile shudders as she takes in the place; it's incredibly rudimentary, one large room to act as the magazine, and a sort of half-room, half-balcony mounted over top, supporting a double bed, a table and a few chairs. Something wriggly lands on her shoulder and she shrieks and swats at it.  
  


"Gem!" cries J'hani, beside himself with laughter. "Gem, it's only me."  
  


"Arsehole!"  
  


"I'm sorry."  
  


"No, you're  _ not! _ "  
  


By way of a response, J'hani trails his fingertips across her shoulderblades in a terrifyingly spidery fashion. He takes hold of her shoulders before she can turn around and whack him. "No," he murmurs, "not really."  
  


They stand like that for a few moments. "Did you know—" J'hani starts to say, before the sound of armoured footsteps snaps them both from the moment.   
  


" _ Ssshit, _ " Gemile hisses. "Didn't I tell you?"  
  


"Take the back door!" They both sprint for it—not that it's a very long way—and J'hani rattles the doorknob. "It's not moving. . ."  
  


"There," says Gemile, spotting a rusted iron latch in the bottom, like in a barn door, and twisting it. The door opens smoothly and, after casting a glance around the area for guards, she and J'hani run back to the Cornerclub.  
  


"Why did we do that?" Gemile pants, desperately out of breath from the run. Tillari looks at them strangely as they burst into the inn.  
  


"Is there a law against looking? Hi, Tillari," J'hani adds.  
  


"Hello," says Tillari, swabbing the counter, half-smiling. "Get into any mischief?"  
  


"No!" cries Gemile. "At least,  _ I _ didn't.  _ He _ has a funny idea of 'looking'."  
  


"We have good news," says J'hani, utterly ignoring her.  
  


"Did Indarys approve of your little venture?"  
  


"Yes!" they both say in unison.  
  


"Well, congratulations to you. Maybe soon you'll be out of my hair. So to speak," she says, running a large hand over her prickly scalp, and flashing a yellow-toothed grin. "For now—want a comberry wine?"

  
  


* * *

  
  


Gemile lays her earring on her nightstand. "Were you going to say something earlier?"  
  


"What? When?"  
  


"In the shop, you said something like 'you know that', but then we heard guards."  
  


"Oh. I, er. . .I was going to say, Heart's Day is coming soon."  
  


"Damn it! Ria's birthday!"  
  


J'hani laughs shortly, and says nothing more.  
  


"I'd ought to send her a letter. We. . ." Gemile folds her hands. "We left on such a sour note."  
  


"I'm certain she'd appreciate that," mumbles J'hani.  
  


"I wonder what she might tell me about Tinus. . ."  
  


"Is it anything you want to hear?"  
  


She looks into his yellow eyes with their dark, slit pupils, so different from the warm, inquisitive blue gaze with which Tinus looked—looks at the world.  
  


"I—I'm going to find an inkwell," she says at last. "I think we've run out."  
  


"What if Quaspus' negotiator comes in the meantime?"  
  


"I'll be downstairs. I'll see him on his way in."  
  


"All right, Gem."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god i love the name "quaspus"


	23. 3E 387, Sun's Dawn 15

J'hani beams— _ beams _ as they stand in front of the newly un-condemned building.   
  


"Um," says the carpenter Quaspus recommended them—a young Nord woman with short, nearly-white hair, "If it's up to me, I would say that this place should be torn down and built up from the foundation."  
  


"That sounds expensive," says Gemile uncertainly.  
  


"Oh, no,  _ þad vætr _ —it is not too bad. Only manpower is the expensive thing. It will even not make a dent in Suria's coffers."  
  


"How long will it take to finish?" J'hani asks.  
  


"Ah,  _ þrír _ —three months, I think. Or a little more."  
  


His face falls. "And what are we to do in the meantime?"  
  


The Nord scratches her temple. "We can maybe build. . . _ svon beiskaldi _ . . .like a—" she spreads her hands and mimics the shape of a flat, floor-height protrusion from the side of the building.  
  


"A floor. . ." J'hani guesses half-heartedly.  
  


"A porch!" Gemile says.  
  


" _ Já! _ " says the Nord, snapping her fingers. "You can work there while we the house building."  
  


J'hani's tail flicks. "Is there anything we can do to help?"  
  


"I think Suria having people bring wood from the. . .ah. Great house to cut wood?"  
  


"Lumber mill?" tries J'hani.  
  


" _ Já.  _ Go to the castle and ask. Tell her not too much bringing, we can use only so much in a day."  
  


They walk up to the castle, weaving through the high, dark-roofed halls and homes of Cheydinhal, J'hani leading their little two-man charge.  
  


"You're chipper, aren't you," says Gemile, losing her breath as they trudge uphill.  
  


"Why should I not be chipper?" he says, grinning and looping an arm through hers. Gemile groans as he drags her along beside him like the raging current of a large river. "Finally things are going  _ right, _ Gem!"  
  


"Don't say that too loudly," she grumbles. Mama likes to say that the Daedra—the evil Daedra especially—have many ears and many eyes.  
  


Still, they run hand in hand across the courtyard.  
  


Suria raises an eyebrow when she meets them in the main hall. "'Disheveled' is the word that comes to mind."  
  


"Pardon us, madam Quaspus," says Gemile, bowing her head as she runs her fingers through her hair and readjusts her shawl, "We—we were just excited, I suppose."  
  


"Truly." Suria jots something down in the heavy black ledger she's carrying. "What have you come here for in such a flurry of excitement?"  
  


Gemile's face burns, and she looks away for a moment.  
  


"Your friend, Eira, told us to go and see you about the lumber," J'hani speaks up.  
  


"Why?" asks Suria, an honest expression of bafflement on her face. "Are you hoping to help carry it?" She snorts at her own little joke.  
  


Neither speaks.  
  


"Blood of the gods," sighs Suria, pinching the bridge of her nose. "In case it's escaped your notice—let me rephrase my thought. All those," she says, "whom I employ for these tasks are Orcs from the strongholds or Nords from Skyrim. Why do you think that is?"  
  


"I—"  
  


"It's because," says Suria, wrinkling her nose at the interruption—apparently she was asking a rhetorical question—"they work well, and quickly. What do either of you know about manual labour?"  
  


Gemile says nothing. J'hani looks as though he wants to speak, but thinks better of it.  
  


"There you are, then. You'll slow down the work and generally be a pair of nuisances, in the most prosaic terms. I hope I've cleared matters up for you."  
  


They slink back to Eira with the news.   
  


She crosses her sinewy arms and frowns. " _ Bei _ —ah, nonsense. You haven't asked money to her, no?"  
  


"No," says Gemile.  
  


"Then I see no problem. Go. . .to. . .lumber mill," she says, finding the word. "I will talk to Suria."  
  


"I don't see the problem either," grumps J'hani on their way out to the western valley. "We are offering free labour."  
  


_ You're _ offering, Gemile wants to say. Instead, exhausted, with a stitch tearing at her left side, she tells him: "We're offering to waste their time."  
  


"Not if we hurry."  
  


As though it was waiting for the right moment, a root catches Gemile's toe and tugs, sending her falling face-first into the warm, damp earth.   
  


J'hani pulls her gently upright. "Gem—"  
  


"I'm fine," says Gemile, through her teeth. The little ornament on her slipper, green glass cut to look like an emerald to the layman, has been ripped away. "I want some water."  
  


"They'll have some at the mill."  
  


So they do. The mill is perched in a high clearing at the border of the rainforest, and the rasp of an old saw trying desperately to cleave a thick, dark-red tree trunk in half is deafening.   
  


A barrel-chested young Orc offers her a waterskin almost as soon as they come into sight. "Here," he shouts over the din. "You could use it!"  
  


Does she really look that bad? Gemile takes the ratty thing and uncorks it, smiling politely even as her face burns with embarrassment.  
  


Before she's finished her drink, the incredible noise stops abruptly and the woodworkers disperse. A tall Orc woman—in a stained, sleeveless undershirt and sawdusted work trousers—drapes her work shirt across the back of her neck and walks away from the great machine, wiping her forehead with her arm.  
  


"Bashha!" cries Gemile.   
  


The woman whips her head around, searching for the source of the cry, and when her eyes lock with Gemile's, her face splits into a grin, and she strides over. "Hey," she says. "Fancy meeting you here."  
  


"I live here," says Gemile.  
  


"So you do. Who's your dashing friend?" Bashha asks, pretending to sneak a covert glance J'hani's way.  
  


J'hani blushes like a rose to hear Bashha's teasing. "My name is J'hani Rouvandi," he says.  
  


"We're going into business together," adds Gemile. This is the most impressive and least complicated answer to Bashha's question.  
  


"Oh, well, look at you." Bashha puts her hands on her hips and grins broadly.  
  


"Where are Lorbulkhar and Morshnag?"  
  


"Packed off back to Valenwood, sadly. I'd have joined them, but. . ." Bashha clicks her tongue and glances around. "How are you at keeping a secret?"  
  


"No good at all," says Gemile cheekily.  
  


"That's OK. I don't know any of these guys anyway. . .so here it is. My husband and I are expecting a baby."  
  


"Oh!" says Gemile, although her heart twinges. J'hani takes her hand. "That's wonderful, Bashha!"  
  


"Congratulations," says J'hani.  
  


"No congratulations are in order just yet, but thanks. It's—"  
  


"Wait," Gemile frowns. "Your husband. . . isn't Valenwood, is he?"  
  


"He's a high elf. I can't wait to see what we end up making." Bashha chuckles, laying an affectionate hand on her stomach, and even though Gemile can't really see the joke, she laughs along. "I told my mother I'd name it after her if it's a girl, so of course I'm hoping for a boy."  
  


"How far are you?"  
  


"Not far. Two months?"  
  


"You hadn't ought to be working," chides Gemile, feeling suddenly very much like Mama.  
  


"Oh, pff. It's just to keep us in coin until my husband's things come from Summerset. Few more weeks, maybe."  
  


"Do you love him very much?"   
  


"I—sure I do," says Bashha, raising her thick eyebrows. "Sure I do."  
  


"That's—good." Stupid thing to say. Gemile bites hard into her lip.  
  


"Listen, I have to, uh, get back to it. You two—you're not just here to see my pretty face again, are you?"  
  


Gemile blinks, trying to get her thoughts in order. "He wants to help carry up some of the wood for our shop,"   
  


J'hani looks warily at the enormous tree trunk. He seems to find his resolve. "I want to be able to say that I helped build it in some small way."  
  


"S'pose I can respect that." She shoves her hands into her pockets. "Here, I'll have 'em split one of the bundles in half and you two can carry one between you. Should be time for two runs before sunset."  
  


"Can't we take one each?" asks J'hani, glancing at Gemile.  
  


"Half a bundle like  _ that, _ " Bashha inclines her head toward a pile of bound planks, "is about the weight of a big foal, so why don't you tell me?" A silent smile crinkles Bashha's features, her deep-green skin bright in the sun.  
  


J'hani hesitates, but Gemile's frantic head-shaking and mouthing  _ no _ leads him to the obvious conclusion. "Two trips, then."  
  


Easier said than done. By the time they reach the building site with the first pile, Gemile's arms and shoulders are burning and her legs are desperately sore. The false gemstone on her other slipper has been lost, too. J'hani, for his part, seems to be doing all right, but the back of his shirt is dark with sweat. Eira gives them a look of pity as they drag their feet toward the site.  
  


"Just put it down here, with the others," she says quickly, coming up behind Gemile and taking hold of the bound pile, and letting it down gently, without harming the wood.  
  


J'hani laughs—a short, breathless laugh interspersed with pants. "And now for round two."  
  


"Are you absolutely fucking off your head?" Gemile wheezes. "I think. . .I could barely make it home, let alone all the way out there and. . .back again with that. . . _ bloody _ thing on my shoulder!"  
  


"Gem, please," says J'hani, taking her hands. "Please. I think you'll be happy that we did this."  
  


"I think we've done enough," mutters Gemile, but she lets him lead her back out in the direction of the mill.  
  


By the time they make it back again, the sun is well down. It stings to think how badly Bashha overestimated them. Or at least overestimated her. If J'hani had had a twin, the two of them would have made good time.  
  


But none of that matters. Gemile's face is burning—if she were lighter-skinned, she might have flushed to the colour of a ripe tomato. Every muscle in her body is screaming for a rest, for a drink, for a meal, in whatever order she can get them. She throws her arm about J'hani's shoulders.  
  


He smiles. "We’re tired, are we?"  
  


"Obviously not. I'm being familiar."  
  


"A likely story."  
  


"Well, fine," says Gemile, leaning obnoxiously into his side, "I'm terribly tired. Horribly tired. More tired than I— _ ah! _ " He's scooped her up into a bridal hold without a second's warning.  
  


"Is that any better?" J'hani asks.  
  


"Arsehole, you frightened me!"  
  


"Sorry," he says genuinely, and shrugs as best he can with Gemile in his arms.  
  


She sighs. "D'you think you can keep this up all the way to the Cornerclub?"  
  


"I can try my best."

  
  


* * *

  
  


Tillari laughs when the two of them come in. "Here come the Lovers now."  
  


J'hani sets Gemile down. She looks down hopelessly at her dress, now a dirty, tattered thing with the hem nearly torn clear off.  
  


"Azura's tits!" says a squat, fair-complexioned dark elf, leaning forward across the bar. "What's he done to you?"  
  


"We've been at work picking up lumber for our shop," blurts Gemile, feeling oddly defensive. "Have we met?"  
  


"My wife, Relvasi," says Tillari. "She's visiting for Heart's Day."  
  


"Well, young Polydor," prods Relvasi, "are you going to let your girl run all her dresses ragged?"   
  


"Rel," says Tillari, trying very hard to look disapproving, but bright-eyed with amusement.  
  


"P-perhaps we should buy you some work clothes," J'hani says, after he's done spluttering about 'your girl'.  
  


"You mean  _ I _ should buy me some work clothes. With my money," replies Gemile.  
  


"And a true Eloisa!" exclaims a delighted Relvasi.   
  


"Go on upstairs," says Tillari quickly, "some water left if you'd like a bath. Tomorrow's free board for the holiday, and free wine if you want it."  
  


"Thank you," they both say dutifully, and rush upstairs.  
  


"Take the water if you like," Gemile tells him, "I still have to finish off Ria's letter."  
  


"Are you certain? You—" J'hani catches himself. "What I mean to say is, you look tired."  
  


"Not too tired to hold a quill," she shrugs, and sits down at the desk. Behind her J'hani takes some clothes from the trunk and leaves, gently closing the door after himself.  
  


The letter is mostly quite unsentimental. 

_ Sun's Dawn 15 (nearly the 16th)  
  
_

_ Happy birthday, Ria.  
  
_

_ A lot's happened.  
  
_

_ I hope you aren't still cross with me. I'm cross with me, though, so I understand if you are. Your birthday will have come and gone by the time you get this, but I hope you like my present anyway.  
  
_

_ How is Tinus? Will you tell him his mother's thinking of him?  
  
_

_ Also do you remember telling me I had "Mara's favour"? I got injured a few months ago and I apparently cast a healing spell on myself. Is that what you meant?  
  
_

_ Write me back— _

_ Gem _

_ The Cornerclub _

_ Cheydinhal Market District _

Folded next to it on the desk is a turquoise hip-shawl with embellishments made to look like little coins. It jingles merrily at the slightest provocation. Ria in a piece of clothing.  
  


She stands, slips out of her ruined dress and into a simple cotton nightgown, and puts her hair up into a bun, daubing perfume in her underarms and neck. A bath would have been quite nice, actually, but she'll take tomorrow's.

  
  
  



	24. 3E 387, Sun's Dawn 16

_ "'And Eloisa, for her part, had been husbanded once _

_ But that the churl was fair to see, his death had been a bunce!'" _ shouts Gemile at the top of her lungs—and four dozen of the inn's guests with her, whooping and guffawing.  
  


Her draped work pants are thoroughly grimy, her rough shirt clings wetly to her lower back, and the toes of her boots are caked with dirt. They'd gone out and bought the stupid work clothes and J'hani had said something about 'as long as you're already wearing them. . .'  
  


And they'd run more bloody lumber back from the mill. And she'd thought she couldn't get any sorer. When she picks up her glass of purple-black comberry wine, her arm trembles all the way up to her shoulder.  
  


But she's warm in the front room of the Cornerclub and singing about Polydor and Eloisa, and she's got wine, and Tillari's wife has made a plate of marshmerrow pastries especially for her and J'hani. All things considered, it's not the worst Heart's Day.  
  


She's missed a verse. But the other patrons have picked it up, some in Cyrodilic, others in Dunmeris.  
  


_ In Evermor their home had been, nevermore would it be _

_ To Taneth, Skaven, Rihad would they go by sand and sea.  
  
_

They're on a little bench in the far end of the room, but near enough to the fire. J'hani leans into her side, his legs propped up on a chair, the plate of pastries perched on his lap.  
  


Slowly, the mood of the ballad turns sour, and no one is laughing or cheering by the time Polydor is killed by the fire mage—dead silence when Eloisa freezes to death in the next verse.

_ And now do we reflect upon a cruel and simple ver-ity: _

_ A fiery heart will melt the ice, and ice of flame makes par-ity. _

A few scattered voices break the silence, and the life returns to the room. Gemile puts her head in her hands. "I hate it. Why can't they just—end up happy?"  
  


J'hani moves the wine glass across the table from her—her fifth. After a moment's thought, he sits up straight and downs the rest of her glass himself.  
  


"Oi! Get your own!"  
  


"I have. I have, I have, I have had. . .less than you," he murmurs.  
  


"Pull the other one. You are so pissed."  
  


"Why. . ." J'hani blinks slowly and drapes his legs across her lap, and lies down flat on the bench. "Why does that last verse always upset people so much? What is a parity?"  
  


"Polydor's heart was burnt, and Eloisa's was frozen. It means they can't be together, even in death, they'd destroy one another," says Gemile, welling up.  
  


"Are you crying?"  
  


"No," she says fiercely, and sniffs. "It's not fair. They went through so much to escape the war and then some lunkhead mage ruined it all, for ever. For ever!"  
  


"I never realised that," says J'hani thickly.  
  


"My head hurts, J'hani. I'm going to sleep."  
  


"Goodnight, then."  
  


She scoffs and pries his legs off her lap. "Upstairs, halfwit. In bed."  
  


"That sounds quite nice. Can I come with you?"  
  


Gemile considers. "Yeah."  
  


They manage to scale the staircase, although it feels much steeper and more treacherous than normal. Gemile throws off her filthy work clothes, puts on her nightgown and falls face-first into bed, pulling her hair free of its ponytail before she turns over onto her back.  
  


J'hani takes a strand between his fingers and twirls it. "You've lovely hair, do you know that, Gem?"  
  


"I try," Gemile giggles—and then she stops, because laughing gives her a headache. "I like yours," she says, quieter.  
  


"I try."  
  


She watches him closely, the way strands of his wavy hair—now a little past his shoulders—fall into his face, and his eyes reflect the buttery light of the oil-lamp, a clunky old thing with an orange film casting a fiery glow about them.  
  


He's watching her the same way, she realises. Her face burns and she offers him a strange, nervous smile. It feels like a stand-off of some sort. Is it? Are they sizing one another up like wolves? To what end? She turns onto her back again and focuses her gaze on the ceiling. J'hani breathes out slowly, and he's close enough that she feels the flare of warmth on her cheek.  
  


She turns back, frowning, and her frown seems to make him smile, and he tilts his face forward so that their foreheads are touching. His skin is downy with fine, barely-there fur. Gemile closes her eyes and, feeling feverish, lifts her hand and follows his jawline with her thumb, her fingers ghosting along the back of his neck. He breathes in—not sharply, but he places his hand over hers with a small laugh of disbelief. "Gem," he says, lower than a whisper.  
  


Gemile sits up to kneel on the bed; J'hani follows her like he's been charmed, holding her hand to his cheek all the while. He's not the slightest bit drowsy now, his eyes wide and his breaths coming fast, he seems simply to be awaiting—hoping for!—her next move.   
  


Easy. She's too terrified to grin, but a beaming, laughing feeling rushes through her mind as she moves in, lays her free hand on his shoulder and cants her head to meet him—he closes the last distance, making a small sound in the back of his throat when their lips brush. Gemile frowns again and pushes closer, deepening the kiss. J'hani places his other hand in the curve of her waist, without tugging or demanding or compelling—just touching. He seems to be purely reacting to her: his tail swishes, in spite of itself, and worries the end of her nightgown.   
  


She watches him, and she still can't bring herself to grin, because there's nothing she could do with her face to express the swirling feeling in her limbs, the way the warm light seems to have sunk into her skin and made her glow from the inside out.   
  


J'hani laughs. He laughs and his dark hair flies, made copper in the lamplight. "Wow."  
  


"Wow what?" she says, smoothing a lock of hair behind his pointed ear.  
  


"I never, I didn't think, I always," he can't line up his thoughts, he looks so flustered. Finally, shyly, he settles for: "Can we do that again, Gem?"  
  


"Why don't  _ you _ kiss  _ me? _ " she asks, with a smirk, but she can't hold it there, it bursts into the same giddy grin she couldn't summon before.  
  


"May I?" he asks, solemnly, and that makes her laugh, she laughs and nods at the same time, and he comes to her, and—his lip slides against her teeth, she's laughing so much. Out of simple curiosity, Gemile moves her hand and runs her thumb along the curve of his ear, and he gasps—a sharp small gasp—and pulls away, red as a beet.  
  


"J'hani."  
  


"I-I-it's, I—" he stammers desperately.  
  


"Can I do it again?" she asks, frowning in her concentration. J'hani looks away, smiling shakily, and his mouth twitches when she traces her finger along his ear again. She presses down the tiniest bit and his breathing becomes laboured. He fixes his gaze on his hands, folded in his lap. And again. His eyelids flutter and a tiny sigh escapes him—then his eyes widen and his gaze snaps to hers, mortified.   
  


"Mine don't do that," she tells him.  
  


"I-I-I wasn't expecting that they would." Still—perhaps trying to save face—he runs his thumb along the shell of her ear in just the same way.  
  


Gemile shrugs. "Sorry."  
  


"Ah."  
  


"It doesn't feel bad. It's nice, like having your hair played with." For no real reason, her gaze drops to his lap. "Oh."  
  


Now he's beyond words with embarrassment, mouthing hopelessly and shaking his head at her.  
  


"Next Heart's Day," she grins.  
  


"Next—!"  
  


"Joking! I'm joking," cuts in Gemile, inventing a yawn to stifle, "but I  _ am _ going to bed." The excitement of earlier has left her—now she's just drowsy and warm. She curls up beneath the duvet as J'hani puts out the lamp, still taking steadying breaths, and she drifts off with her head nestled in the hollow of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's something i could explain about the pacing here but it hopefully speaks for itself :/


	25. 3E 387, Second Seed 17 (!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief warning for references to sexual assault in the beginning!

J'hani rubs the dust off the massive mirror with the flat of his hand. "I think," he says, "that we should consider doing some cleaning before we move into this place."  
  


"The storefront is finished enough, that's what matters," shrugs Gemile. She walks over and stands at his side, laying her hands on his shoulders. Their shapes are foggy and indistinct in the dirty glass. "Are you nervous?"  
  


"Well, we know that Quaspus wants us to do well, and that is encouraging. . .and people have been going around with billets all week. . ."  
  


"But are you  _ nervous, _ J'hani?"  
  


"Oh, yes. I might be sick."  
  


" _ Cor meum, _ " she says softly, putting a supportive arm around his waist. "If it's any help, you look very sharp."  
  


"Do I? I feel scruffy."  
  


"Well, you could see for yourself if—here," says Gemile, spotting a forgotten rag on the floor next to a table leg, scooping it up, and hurriedly wiping down the mirror. "Eh?"  
  


J'hani peers at his reflection, adjusting his hair, re-buttoning the buttons on his shirt cuffs. He's wearing the mantle she got him. . .two years ago now. Divines.   
  


"I think I've got the finishing touch," she says, "if you want it."  
  


"The what?" says J'hani absently, re-tying the laces on his boots so that the loops of the knot are symmetrical.  
  


Gemile grins and pulls from her pocket a small, weighty parcel, swaddled in fabric. She clears her throat as loudly as she can. J'hani looks over at last. "Oh."  
  


"Happy twentieth."  
  


"Gem—"  
  


"Don't say anything yet." She holds out the parcel so that it sits expectantly in her palm. Gingerly, J'hani takes it and unfolds the fabric wrapping.  
  


"That's actually the first bit of the present, it's sea silk. It has these little patterns that glimmer white in sunlight. And a gentleman always carries a handkerchief."  
  


"A handkerchief? But there's no washing this!"  
  


"Well, don't—blow your nose into it. Keep it in your pocket."  
  


"No one will see it that way. That seems a shame. It's so lovely."  
  


"Hm." Gemile bites her lip. "Oh, I know." She takes the handkerchief from him and folds it double, into a triangle shape. "Hold out your hand." He does it without hesitating, and she ties the cloth like a bracelet about his wrist. "There. It's like you're fighting in the Kvatch Arena."  
  


"Like I'm what?"  
  


Gemile's face flushes. She's being horribly soppy, isn't she? "Sometimes the Arenas will host duels for love, or it's some minor noble wanting to fly his family's colours. . .that's how they do it. Because it doesn't get in the way."  
  


"Oh." J'hani smiles, admiring the handkerchief-bracelet with fresh interest. "Am I flying your colours, Gemile?"  
  


"Your—oh." Gemile huffs. "Will you hurry and open the rest of it?"  
  


He does. "Gem, these aren't. . .?"  
  


"Earrings," she says dryly. "Like—"  
  


"Like the ones I had before." He rushes her and lifts her off the ground in a tight hug. " _ Ahziss khunu'tu. _ Thank you."  
  


"D'you want me to put them in for you?"  
  


"Please." He sets her down. Gemile, having gotten her breath back, leans close, with the little cluster of rings in her cupped hand. J'hani has to point out the spot for each piercing, three on each side; they're spaced irregularly across the length of each ear, and each side has them in wildly different places.  
  


"Who did these, anyway?" asks Gemile as she pokes the last one through.  
  


"Some friend of my mother's in Elsweyr. I was very small. They are meant to look as they are."  
  


"Symmetry's too boring for you?" Gemile taps her own ear; one golden stud in each earlobe, orderly, as it's been for twenty-one years. "Mine must be horribly boring."  
  


"I like them! They suit you."  
  


"And yours suit you. So there we are."  
  


"There we are," says J'hani, and kisses her. He traces a path along the line of her jaw, and around the side of her neck to the front of her throat—  
  


"Oh, don't," mumbles Gemile, writhing out of his grip like a housecat fed up with being pet. She points to the front of her throat, where her windpipe is, and shakes her head. "I. . ." And she finds herself trembling.  
  


"All right, Gem," says J'hani. "I'm sorry. Don't cry."  
  


Confused tears seem to strike her out of the blue. "I don't mean to," she says.  
  


"Come here." Without asking any questions, he wraps his arms around her. He mumbles something in Ta'agra and kisses the top of her head.  
  


They stand that way for a while. Then, carefully, J'hani steps back and takes her hands in his. "Are you. . .do you want to talk. . .about—"  
  


"It's something—that—er—it's," she stammers. Idiot girl. She forces herself to breathe. "—he would do this," she says, and hovers her hands very, very lightly around his neck to demonstrate, both thumbs brushing against his Adam's apple. "To keep—keep—"  
  


Something twisted takes root in J'hani's expression—disgust, if she had to put a name to it, but she has no idea whether it's for her or for Uriel. Which is horribly frightening.   
  


"J'hani," she says.  
  


He looks her in the eye and the twisted thing disappears. Instead he smiles, takes her hands again and kisses each of them in turn. "I'm sorry, Gem. I'll keep it in mind, all right?"  
  


"That's all?"   
  


"I—isn't it? Is there more?"  
  


"No, I." She grabs handfuls of her dress and swishes it about her. "Do you feel any differently about me?"  
  


"No," he says, emphatically. "I—Gem, I know—well—it-it isn't as though Tinus grew from a cabbage patch, did he?"  
  


"But that's not what I mean."  
  


"I don't like thinking of the way he treated you." Another flash of that primeval disgust, that makes his pupils narrow. "But I don't see why that should change anything for us."  
  


"OK," breathes Gemile, letting out a sigh she didn't know was there. "OK. OK." And she embraces him, still halfway afraid that he'll recoil, but he doesn't, of course he doesn't.  
  


"We should go downstairs," he murmurs at long last.  
  


"What time is it?"  
  


"Late enough. I would like to finish setting out our inventory."  
  


They descend into the front room; what, months ago, was a dilapidated, insect-ridden shack, has been rebuilt and fortified in dark, stately cedar. Now the building welcomes the morning light, instead of cowering. Still, Gemile lights one of the lanterns for a bit of visibility. A sweet, rich scent drifts from the other end of the room. "Something smells really good."  
  


"The tea, I think," says J'hani, indicating a small round table beside the door, populated by a large iron tea-kettle and a small army of cylindrical glasses. "I brought it over just before breakfast."  
  


Black tea with milk, spices—and—ginger. Gemile smiles. "Any Nibenese we get are going to love it."  
  


"That was my hope."  
  


J'hani busies himself setting out the many trinkets they've amassed with the help of Errandil's contacts—etchings by master painters in their young years, decorative knives, delicate coronets in gold, pendants with ruby inlays. . .in short, things so valuable they make her nervous to touch.   
  


"D'you ever wonder that Quaspus invested all this money into us?"  
  


"Hm?" J'hani straightens a child-sized tiara on its cushion and gingerly closes the display case. "No. Well. I didn't really understand it either."  
  


"Is she that certain we're going to turn a profit?"  
  


"Gem," he says, a little sharply, "maybe it's better not to dwell for now."  
  


"I'm only making your nerves worse, am I? Sorry."  
  


"That's all right, I just. . ." J'hani sighs and runs his hands through his hair. "It'll be all right."  
  


"Yeah."

  
  


* * *

  
  


At ten o'clock, they prop open the front door and find that Quaspus has once again spared no expense; criers are already patrolling the market district. Quaspus herself greets them, with two burly guards in tow. "Morning," says one, a Nord with his hair shaved like a sailor. "We're here to keep an eye on things for you." He glances at the display case full of jewelry, and then back at Quaspus. "They're green to be dealing in valuables like these, aren’t—?"  
  


“You’re not paid to ask questions,” says Quaspus shortly.  
  


Their first-ever customer is a wood elf, dressed in purple, wearing gold chains in every place one might reasonably wear a gold chain, asking after a wooden carving of Ius of the Ojwambu tribe of northern Hammerfell. Next, an old, emaciated high elf, with her white hair piled sky-high on top of her narrow head; she goes home with no fewer than three coronets, in gold, silver and ebony.  
  


Gawkers come, too, peasants and layabouts come to see the many sparkling things. Gemile doesn't blame them; she's spent half her own day between sales goggling at all the little obscure treasures. J'hani welcomes them as he does everyone else, with tea and a radiant smile.  
  


By late afternoon, they've sold about five-thousand septims' worth and been promised twice as much if they can hunt down certain items. Of course, the vast majority of the money will go right into the Count's pocket.  
  


The last person to walk into the shop is Mama. She stands in the doorway and comes no further—instead, with the sunset a brilliant ring around her, she takes one of the little tea glasses in hand and sips from it. For a very long moment, she and Gemile look at one another, and then that half-smile comes to Mama's face. "You forgot the cardamom,  _ carissima. _ "  
  


"Mama!" It takes everything she has not to clamber clear over the counter. Mama has time to set the teacup back down as Gemile blunders her way to the front of the shop to hug her. "What are you doing here?" she bursts out.  
  


"I was in the city. I could hardly avoid hearing about your grand opening." Mama glances at J'hani. "Have you been pouring these straight into the glass?"  
  


"I, er, yes?" he says, too stunned to come up with more.  
  


Mama tsks. She takes the teapot in her right hand and holds it up high over her head, and for a moment the tea draws a perfect line in the air from the teapot down to the little glass, clattering loudly as it fills. She hands the foaming glass to J'hani, who tries it. He shrugs and grins at her. "There is the missing ingredient," he admits.  
  


"Also the cardamom," adds Gemile. "Mama, will you come back to the Cornerclub with us? After J'hani and I clean up."  
  


Just as expected, Mama's lip quirks disdainfully at the mention of the Cornerclub, but she says nothing more about it. "I will meet you there in an hour."  
  


"All right."

  
  


* * *

  
  


"Is it funny to you that this is one of the last nights we'll be staying here?" Gemile asks as they follow the riverbank.  
  


"Staying—?"  
  


"At the Cornerclub." She points; the dark, tall building with its exotic form comes into view, just beside the city's main bridge.  
  


"I suppose," shrugs J'hani. "I'm having a hard time envisioning us in that attic."  
  


"It won't be half bad, I think. It's roomy, and light."  
  


Mama waves—or, more accurately, she raises a hand and casts a tiny flame charm that makes her a beacon in the early dark.  
  


"Hi, Tillari," says Gemile the moment they go inside. "This is my mother."  
  


"Livia Iuliana," says Mama, with a stiff nod.  
  


"Tillari Ofemman," says Tillari, holding out a large hand. After a moment, Mama takes it. "Pleasure to meet you."  
  


"The pleasure is mine."  
  


Tillari looks unconvinced.  
  


Gemile shoots J'hani a meaningful look. "J'hani,"  _ cor _ she wants to say, but she's afraid of the way Mama's eyebrows will shoot up, and her pursed mouth draw a thin red line across her face. "Will you help my mother find a table? I need to ask Tillari about something."  
  


"Of course," he says, smiling his glittering smile, and Mama's eyes are on him, so he doesn't kiss her, nor touch her hand before he goes. Mama follows deftly behind him.  
  


Tillari whistles. "Should've expected that's what she'd be like."  
  


"What?" says Gemile defensively.  
  


"Ah." Tillari taps her thumb to her bottom lip, looking for the right word. "Tight-laced." She takes a sip from a tin tankard on the bar and watches Gemile as she drinks.  
  


"If she's 'tight-laced', then so am I," snaps Gemile, and Tillari nearly chokes on her ale. Once recovered, she bursts out laughing, loud and deep.  
  


"Yep," manages Tillari at last. "Yep."  
  


"What d—what d'you mean, 'yep'?"  
  


"I mean it's a damn good thing you have J'hani around. And I value my head, little thumb, so that's all I'll say."  
  


Gemile furrows her brow at that, but there are more important things tonight. "Well—well. . .well, fine. What I wanted to ask was, could you make us up one of those big platter things?"  
  


"Big platter things?" asks Tillari, still with a self-satisfied smirk on her face.  
  


"The big silver thing with all the different saltrice porridges on it, and the crisped ash yam slices with scrib jelly, and. . .some sort of meat? Nix-hound, I think?"  
  


"There's more to the Ofemman special than that."  
  


"But could you? Please? I know it's short notice and it's a pain in the arse, but," she inclines her head in J'hani's direction, "it's his birthday, and you know we've just had our grand opening—"  
  


"Peace!  _ Ohm almardi! _ " Tillari cries, holding up her hands. "You had me at 'please'."  
  


" _ Juohn, _ Tillari."   
  


"You're welcome." She winks. "Let 'em know it'll be ready in half an hour."  
  


Gemile nods and hurries to the table. Mama and J'hani are making quiet conversation—that is, J'hani is making a very valiant effort to fill Mama's icy silence. She brightens when Gemile takes her seat. "You look tired,  _ carissima. _ "  
  


"I am tired," she says, grinning as she and J'hani swap a look of understanding. "But a good sort of tired."  
  


"I should hope you haven't thrown out your good dresses," says Mama, eyeing her new, plain work blouse and skirt.  
  


"No, of course not! I just needed something a bit more. . .practical," Gemile says cautiously, "for work." She won't mention the red dress she ruined trying to haul lumber in.  
  


"Just as well. Your father sends me with his apologies," Mama sighs, looking like she resents her own words. "He has asked that I tell you you've quite made your point, and that you'd ought to come home."  
  


"Oh," says Gemile flatly. "But why—?"  
  


"—a meeting with some dignitary or other from Skyrim," says Mama, anticipating her question. "He left home a fortnight ago."  
  


"Oh," she says again. Is Mama on his side? Her calm face betrays nothing. "Thank you for making it to our opening."  
  


"Gemile, your father has only your best interests at heart."  
  


"Do you believe that?" asks Gemile.  
  


Mama's black eyes flare, heavy with kajal. "I beg your pardon, my own."  
  


Gemile shrugs, although her heart is a frantic bird in her chest. "It's only a question. Do you believe Papa is doing what's best? Or just the thing that makes him feel—"   
  


And she stops. No one's interrupted her, exactly, but suddenly the air is thick with the promise of magic. Strands of Mama's long hair float. J'hani reaches under the table for Gemile's hand.  
  


"How is everyone?" says Gemile, in a very small voice. "Tatianus and the little ones?"  
  


Mama breathes out slowly, and—thank the Divines—she accepts the treaty. "Your brother is engaged once again; this time is, apparently, the real thing."  
  


"Fifth time's the charm. . .sixth?" Gemile smiles to herself.  
  


"He's struck a deal with the girl Nadinandriah—he's not to move out to Valenwood with her until Lavinia is out of the house."  
  


So much for seizing his youth, then. "That's. . .selfless of him."  
  


"Hm. I do not expect that the girl will wait. Time will tell."  
  


"And Lavinia? Valens?"  
  


"As ever. I spoke with a friend at the Chapel of Arkay some time ago—he mentioned that you had visited there."  
  


"Errandil. He wasn't pleased that Lavinia asked after necromancy."  
  


Mama purses her lips. "She has a vast mind, Lavinia, but there is a time and a place to be curious."  
  


Gemile nods.  
  


"Give me your word," says Mama with a sudden urgency, "that you will visit before the season is out."  
  


"It. . .it's going to be a busy two weeks, Mama. We'll come in Midyear, I promise."  
  


Mama crosses her arms unhappily. "Very well." She looks around in the direction of the bar. "Do we intend to eat tonight?"  
  


"A few more minutes. You're both going to like it."


	26. 3E 387, Midyear 3 (!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief warning for some like...sexual harassment at the beginning? (again it's not at all graphic but i'm mentioning it just in case)

Gemile scratches an address into the ledger with a faltering quill. "An. . .authentic Breton rapier, was that right?"  
  


"Jewelled, if you can find it. And I won't take it," says the gentleman, a tall Heartlander with a reedy voice, "if it's cast in anything but pure silver."  
  


"I know a man in Camlorn—Guillaume something—er—J'hani!"  
  


"Hm?"   
  


"That fellow from Camlorn who deals in silver. We got that Mara statuette from him last week."  
  


"He was on his way out of Cyrodiil then. There will be no catching him now."  
  


"But his name!"  
  


"Oh. Sinault? Guillaume S—"  
  


"—Guillaume Sinault!" bursts out Gemile at the same time. "Cheers." She turns back to the Heartlander, who seems less-than-pleased to have had to sit through their exchange. "Excuse me. I'll send a missive to the address I have, but as J'hani says, it'll be a while before he reaches Camlorn and receives it."  
  


"There is no rush," says the Heartlander, wetting his upper lip with a slowness that makes her deeply uncomfortable. Then—and she half-knew it was coming—he places his hand on hers, the great pale palm smothering her entire hand. "You have lovely handwriting, my girl. Educated," he half-whispers. "I am pleasantly surprised."  
  


J'hani crosses the room and taps the old man on his shoulder. "I understand, lord Deribonia, that you're searching for a blade of Breton make, but we do have some lovely ornamental daggers stowed away in case you're. . ." She knows the trick. He's prattling until his magic eye thing can take effect.  
  


"I-I'll be in contact about that rapier, young miss Caridenius," stammers Deribonia, completely ignoring J'hani in his haste to get out.  
  


Gemile sighs heavily. "Don't make a habit of that. It won't be good for business."  
  


"You're quite welcome,  _ ahziss anada. _ "  
  


"Don't  _ anada _ me. Are you going to just be on watch every time some old lecher comes in and tries something strange?"  
  


". . .Yes?" He seems to mean it as a question. "Gem, you can't have wanted me to simply stand by?"  
  


" _ No, _ but. . ." There's more she wants to say, but two colourfully-dressed Argonians have entered the shop. "Good afternoon," she says instead. "Welcome. Please help yourselves to some tea as you browse."

  
  


* * *

  
  


Customers continue to trickle in throughout the afternoon. No time to sit and think. Just before sunset, a great clattering, thumping sound startles the quiet air. Gemile has to dive to save a crystalline rose, dropped by a drooling elf toddler, from shattering.   
  


"What  _ is _ that?" she says, rising irritably to her feet.  
  


"It's coming from the window." J'hani has already made its way over. "Oh," he says with a kind of nauseous pity in his voice. "Some bird is beating itself bloody on the glass."  
  


"They don't normally do that, do—?"  
  


"Open it!" bellows the elf child's mother, a fat, regal woman in white silk. "That bird's been charmed. It has something for you!"  
  


J'hani looks at Gemile, who finds herself nodding, dry-mouthed, with the rose still wound between her fingers, and he hoists up the heavy sliding frame and the poor battered bird flies like an arrow for Gemile. It hurls itself into her arms, streaking faint blood into her work shirt. J'hani hurries to take the rose from her and replace it in its glass cloche.  
  


For a moment, Gemile stands there, utterly at a loss. Somehow she finds the wit to excuse herself as she heads into the storage room with the wounded bird.  
  


"You're thick in the head, are you, bird?" she chastises it. "What's gotten into you?"  
  


It jostles her with its talon, and she realises there's a note bound to its leg. She undoes it, and her heart stills for a moment. Ria's writing.  


_ Lovely shawl thank you. I'm not angry.  
  
_

_ Boy is well. don't worry  
  
_

_ don't write back. Tricky situation here _

_ Will write when it's better  
  
_

_ —R _

"What is this, Ria?" she says, to the bird, as though it would have answers for her. Instead it twitters weakly and looks jerkily about itself, taking in its surroundings with a bright red eye.  
  


She takes the back exit and runs for the first place her frenzied mind can come up with.  
  


"Gemile. . ." Tillari sighs and eyes the bird. "Nice to see you."  
  


"I have to help it! Or it's just going to die!"  
  


"You just pick it up off the street, or what?"  
  


"It was Ria! She sent it with a letter and it whacked itself against our window until it—"  
  


"All right, all right," says Tillari, putting a placating hand on her arm. "I know a guy in town. . .he's in the residential district, his place is way south, hugging the wall. Here. Walk to the chapel, turn south, and. . ." She glances at Gemile. "I'll come with you."  
  


"Thank you," sniffs Gemile, even as the bird gutters in her arms. "We have to hurry."  
  


Tillari's 'guy' is a tiger-headed Khajiit of nearly seven feet. He comes slowly to the door. "Tillari has brought someone," he observes, in a thick Elsweyr lilt. "What can this one do for you?" he asks Gemile, and his tone is so kind that she breaks into panicked tears. She extends the bird to him, and he takes it without another word, gesturing for them to follow him inside.  
  


His living room is spacious and grey, in the back wall two dark doors leading to the next room. The Khajiit heads through the doors, but Tillari bars Gemile from following him in. "Let's just sit."  
  


Gemile nods.   
  


Tillari takes her hands. "Tell me slowly what happened. Slowly."  
  


"I was—" Gemile hiccups. "I was in the shop and. . .Ria," she says stupidly, and Ria's name makes her want to cry harder.   
  


" _ Slowly, _ " says Tillari firmly, rooting around in her pockets and producing a plain handkerchief. "Pretend I have no idea what's going on," she says, with a frown suggesting she really hasn't.  
  


"I was in the shop and some bird—s-some blue  _ bird _ came and beat again—against the window, so I opened it, and it was carrying a letter from my friend Ria."  
  


"And what was in the letter?"  
  


"I. . ." She thinks. "It was strange. She was writing in code, or she was leaving a lot out. Someone might well have been watching her."  
  


"Does she live alone, this Ria?"  
  


"She lives in the Imperial Palace. Oh fucking Arkay, they've done something to her."  
  


"Shh," says Tillari. "Shh." They sit, quieting, for a long time.  
  


The tiger-Khajiit reenters the room, closing the doors behind him, and scuffs his hand on the fabric of his trousers before extending it to Gemile. "Kazaarr-Jo."  
  


"Gemile," croaks Gemile. Kazaarr-Jo smiles—at least, he smiles in the same way Shalha does, purely with his eyes—and heads into another room, returning with a fine, squat glass of water. "Thank you," she says, meaning it.  
  


"Your bird friend was not too badly hurt. She needs only to rest."  
  


"That's really lovely. Thank you for taking care of it—her."  
  


"Not at all. But a strange injury it surely was," continues Kazaarr-Jo, shooting a glance in Tillari's direction. "A bird will hit a glass window with some force, and then it will collapse or it will go on its way—but never has this one seen a bird. . .bash itself into such a state."  
  


"It was charmed," says Gemile, feeling suddenly sick to her stomach. "My friend sent it with a letter. I suppose it couldn't wait for a courier. Or she couldn't get one. Or. . ."  
  


"You worry for this friend?"  
  


"I—"  
  


"It's high time I got back to the bar," says Tillari loudly. "You're welcome to come with me, Gemile."  
  


Gemile nods weakly. "I think I will." She turns to Kazaarr-Jo. "Thank you so much for your help—and for your hospitality—and," she adds, with a thin smile, "for the water. . ."  
  


"Not at all," he says again. "You may come and visit in a few days' time, if it pleases you."  
  


"I think I will, thank you."  
  


Tillari says something to Kazaarr-Jo that sounds like Ta'agra, wrapping him in a short bear-hug. Gemile marvels. The enormous Khajiit makes even Tillari look small by comparison.  
  


She and Tillari walk back to the market district, arm in arm.


	27. 3E 387, Midyear 4

"So what's the name for a Khajiit who resembles a tiger?"  
  


"On four legs or two?"  
  


"Two."  
  


"How large?"  
  


"The size of a very tall man, I suppose. Or. . .an average high elf."  
  


J'hani thinks on that. "Pahmar-raht, most likely. Why?"  
  


"The fellow who treated Ria's bird was one of those. Pahmar-raht. Kazaarr-Jo."  
  


"The 'jo' part indicates a learned person."  
  


"I think I've heard that before. Just like the 'J'' in yours means you aren't married yet."  
  


"And as you know, not being married is my foremost and only character trait."  
  


Gemile's instinct is to joke— _ we _ ' _ d better not marry, then _ —instead she bites her lip, a little uneasy. She crosses to the front of the shop and checks the rightmost window for stains. Nothing. Like the bird was never there.  
  


" _ Khunu'tu, _ " says J'hani, idly. Not to get her attention, but as the expression of a thought. She feels him watching her. She throws open the doors.  
  


"Gem, it'll be all right," he says. And then, probably because he knows how empty it sounds, he adds: "If I know Ria—"  
  


"But you don't, J'hani."

  
  


* * *

  
  


Gemile gathers her long hair into her hands and holds it aloft. "Will you do up my buttons?"  
  


"Mm," says J'hani. He walks over and buttons each one with great care. She shudders, grinning to herself, feeling his soft breaths on her exposed back. "Not a terribly Nibenese garment, this," he mumbles.  
  


"No, it isn't," says Gemile.  
  


"Gemile," he goes on, and then he hesitates for a very long while. He finishes with the dress and she turns around to face him. "Can I ask you a favour for tonight?"  
  


She watches him wordlessly, biting the inside of her cheek.  
  


"Could we please be civil? Tonight? I—"  
  


"I'll be exactly as civil as he is with us."  
  


"Gem, what good is it to—"  
  


"D'you remember what he said the last time we were there? He called you—"  
  


"I am aware," says J'hani rather loudly. "I know."  
  


"So, what? We pretend as though nothing's—?"  
  


"You don't need to pretend anything." J'hani sighs and runs both hands through his hair. "But I. . .simply. . .don't see the point in going if we're only there to start a fight."  
  


"I'm not bloody well doing it to start a fight! I want to see my siblings!"  
  


"Then let's do that. Let's do that, and nothing more, and nothing less. Please."  
  


They stand for a moment, looking one another in the eye. Something roils in Gemile's heart. "Will you hold my mirror so I can do my kajal?"  
  


"Of course."

  
  


* * *

  
  


Tatianus is the one to come to the door, just as he was when she came home from the Imperial City. She rushes into his arms and hugs him tightly before he can say anything sour—for a brief moment he just stands there, perplexed, and then he throws his arms around her and nearly squeezes the life out of her.   
  


"It's good to have you home again,  _ avicella, _ " he says thickly.   
  


"Well, don't get too used to it," she says, with a smile that dissipates when Tatianus shoots her an injured look. "Sorry. You look well," she adds, lamely, but sincere. The look of him puts her at ease—his hair is rumpled, and he's dressed in his usual light shirt and cotton veshti.  
  


"Glad to have your approval, Gem." Tatianus, at last, turns his gaze on J'hani, extending his hand for a brisk, but not unkind handshake. "Got off on the wrong foot, you and I, I suppose. Janus?"  
  


"Close," says J'hani graciously. "J'hani. It's two parts. With—"  
  


"Oh, with the little—?" Tatianus flicks an imaginary apostrophe in the air.  
  


"Just so."  
  


"Ah. I must have been confused. . .I thought you were a Cyrodiil."  
  


"I am. My mother is from Elsweyr," says J'hani, a little flatly.   
  


"Fancy that. Well, come in!" says Tatianus, closing the door behind them.  
  


Gemile walks slowly into the living room. Papa is poised on the sofa—Valens and Lavinia are sat on the floor, arguing bitterly about something or other. Lavinia bolts for Gemile the instant she comes into view. "Hey! I'm on the short list for the Mages' Guild!"   
  


"That's—lovely,  _ pia, _ " says Gemile, startled.  
  


"She still has to wait the five years, but now she has a piece of paper," Valens cuts in.  
  


"It's four and a half years, you stupid donkey! Shows what you know!"  
  


"Four whole years! I'll be long in the Legion by then!"  
  


"Uh-uh, no you won't, Papa says you can't—"  
  


"Children," snaps Papa, and they quiet. He lifts his eyes to Gemile and rises slowly from his seat. " _ Salve, _ " he sighs. "Welcome home."  
  


Gemile bows her head a little, but none of the things she's meant to say will pass her lips. Good to be home—but is it? Thank you. Too formal. "Hi, Papa," she manages at last.  
  


A silence as quick and hard as the lash of a whip—then Lavinia marches up to J'hani. "So what sort of funny Khajiit are you?"  
  


"Lavinia," hisses Tatianus.  
  


"It's all right," says J'hani. "You know there are two moons in our sky? Th—"  
  


"Masser and Secunda," Lavinia rattles off, "or Jone and Jode, as you call them, form the Lunar Lattice. Khajiit are supposed to change shape depending on the phases. Do you? Did you? What do your parents look like? I've seen a few Khajiit and they look nothing like you."  
  


Gemile takes one look at J'hani's nonplussed expression and dares to smile. "Let the poor thing sit down before you start to rain questions on him,  _ pia. _ "  
  


"So do you do any of that claw-fighting?" puts in Valens, as Gemile and J'hani settle on the sofa.  
  


"Claw-fighting?" asks J'hani faintly.  
  


"Martial arts! For self-defence!"  
  


"Ah. Well," J'hani holds out his hand for Valens to look at. Neat, blunted nails. "No real claws to fight with."  
  


"Can't you grow them out?"  
  


"You can grow yours out. Do you then have claws?"  
  


"Oh. No. Can you use a sword?"  
  


"Valens," says Gemile, "you're not going to take—you're not going to take J'hani for a sparring partner."  
  


"I would be closer to a training dummy, I'm afraid," J'hani adds, looking directly at Gemile.   
  


"That's good, too," says Valens, with an alarming seriousness.  
  


"It makes no difference to me, but I think your sister's rather too fond of me."  
  


"I—" begins Gemile, but Lavinia interrupts them with a loud retching noise.  
  


"Be soppy another time! I was talking!" She turns to Valens. "You interrupted me, just like you always do."  
  


Valens chuckles idly, until she punches him in the arm and he flies at her. "Oi!" Gemile grabs Lavinia and wrangles her to her side, putting her down in between herself and Tatianus. "Will you two play nice for five minutes?"  
  


"Nobody cares about your stupid swordfighting!" Lavinia hollers across the sofa. Valens stalks out of the room.  
  


"Divines," breathes Gemile, although the familiarity of it makes her want to laugh. Tatianus starts to rise, but she stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "My turn." And she stands. "Er—are you all right here?" she asks, looking meaningfully between J'hani and Lavinia.  
  


"We'll live, I think," says J'hani, with a vague smile.   
  


As Gemile makes for the bedroom wing, Lavinia suffers through Tatianus' gentle scolding for about five seconds before starting to unload all her many questions on J'hani. Gemile grins. And then she eases her expression into something neutral, because she'll only make Valens angrier if she walks in smiling.  
  


Gemile knocks on the door of Valens and Lavinia's shared bedroom. Nothing. She eases open the door; the room is empty but for Lavinia's blue bed. "Oh," she says to herself. Of course. He's moved into Martina's room. She tries the other door. A noncommittal grunt from Valens.  
  


"Listen, I'm coming in, all right?" She waits a moment and then gently opens the door. She's been in Martina's room billions of times, so she expects the loud squawk of the hinges about a third of the way in. Valens is curled up on top of his bedspread, looking so small he brings Tinus to mind. Feeling a pang of something she can't name, Gemile gently sits down at the foot of the bed. She isn't expecting his loud, wet sniff.  
  


"Are you  _ crying, _ Valens?" Valens _ never _ cries. Tatianus is the weepy brother. Even Lavinia's tears are more common than his, and Lavinia's tears are rare.   
  


Valens says nothing. His shoulders start to shake. Gemile reaches for him. "Come here," she says in a downy-soft voice, "come sit with me." He sits upright, slowly, pushing the back of his hand into his nose. He turns his face away from her.  
  


"What's wrong?" she asks. And he seems to have no answer for that—or else he thinks the answer is so obvious that it doesn't bear explaining. He rests his head on her shoulder, and for a moment everything is silent. So silent, in fact, that they can both hear the lively conversation outside. Then he pulls away from her, coughing and choking on nothing, and falls sobbing into her side.  
  


They sit, Gemile acting as a pillow, with her arms around him, trying not to worry about stains on her best dress. She hums a little. Valens already weeps like a grown man. Like he hates doing it—it's some fatal sickness he's got to hold back, and every sob is a failure in his duty. "You can cry," she says thoughtfully. "Properly. It's all right. You'll feel much better later if you get it all over with now."  
  


After some time—enough time that Tatianus must be starting to worry for Valens, and J'hani for her—he starts to calm. "There," she says encouragingly. "D'you feel any better?"  
  


He sniffs again and says nothing for a long while. "I dunno," he says at last, his voice hoarse and wavering.  
  


"Is there anything I can do?" She still has him wrapped tightly in her arms. "Shall I stay up here? D'you want me to tell Mama to leave you be?"  
  


Another long silence.   
  


Gemile tries something different: "Was it the swordfighting thing that upset you?"  
  


"No," he says, resentfully. "She acts like I'm stupid. I'm older, but I'm just an idiot to her."  
  


It's Gemile's turn to keep quiet, hoping Mama's trick will work and he'll speak of his own accord. She watches the wind blow the curtains away from the open window. There are the marks of angry fists in the wall behind.  
  


"To everyone. Tati is always bit- whinging about I should work harder at lessons and I could really make something of myself. What do I care? Mama only cares about Lavinia and Papa goes along with whatever Tatianus says, and you're in bloody fuck—buggering Cheydinhal! And whenever anyone f- opens their fucking mouth to talk to me it's so they can tell me how fucking stupid I am for liking the stuff I like!" His voice breaks—painfully, like glass—and he falls back onto the bed, ramming the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Damn it all," he spits, apparently rebuking his own tears.  
  


"What stuff is that?" asks Gemile.  
  


"What?"  
  


"What sort of stuff is it you like?"  
  


"You know. Military stuff. Fighting. Running. Stuff for idiots who can't do arithmetic."  
  


"That doesn't sound stupid to me. I'm no good at arithmetic either." Gemile grins. "J'hani does our bookkeeping."  
  


"Bookkeeping?"  
  


"Money and things. For our shop."  
  


"In Cheydinhal? Your  _ shop? _ "  
  


". . .yeah?"  
  


"So you're never coming back."  
  


"I'm here now!"  
  


"To stay."  
  


"I can't really say. It doesn't look that way."  
  


"Excellent," says Valens, still with his palms over his eyes. "That's great for you."  
  


"Look, you don't have to do everything—" Gemile lowers her voice. "You don't have to do everything Mama and Papa say. I mean, yes, do your chores and everything, but when you want to go and make your own life, it doesn't have to be the life they want for you. Or even the life Tatianus wants for you."  
  


"So you're saying I can join the Legion."  
  


"I—" Shit, that's exactly what she's saying. "There are so many things you can do. You can learn to fight, if that's what you want. There's the Fighter's Guild. You could become an adventurer."  
  


"Lot of amateurs, the Fighter's Guild."  
  


"I'm sure they'd be a decent—you know, a decent stepping stone on your way to glory," she says, with a smile in her voice.  
  


"You're making fun of me too."  
  


"No!" she backtracks quickly. "My point is that you have a lot more options than you think."  
  


"Pff."  
  


"Just think about it. That's all. We can—"   
  


"Children!" calls Mama. "Dinner!"  
  


"Coming!" Gemile calls back. "D'you want me to bring over a plate?"  
  


"Yeah. Thanks."  
  


"We'll talk more later," she promises, and leaves him to it, shutting the creaking door gently behind her. She catches Mama's eye on her way out. "Can I make up a plate for him?"  
  


Mama looks about to say something—instead she only sighs. "As you will,  _ carissima. _ "  
  


"He's all right," Gemile adds—she knows Mama won't ask. "He just needs a bit of space. Are we eating in the living room?"   
  


"It is a temperate night. We will sit in the courtyard."  
  


"All right." She joins everyone in the kitchen and cobbles together a heaping plateful of food; saffron rice, grilled vegetables and tender chicken.   
  


J'hani touches her shoulder. "Ah. . .any luck?"  
  


"Yes. . ." It sounds unconvincing even to her. "I. . .will be right back." And she walks the plate over to Valens' room.   
  


"Thanks."  
  


"Don't make a mess, or Mama will skin us both," she warns, and flits back to the kitchen, taking a small plate for herself.  
  


"So that eye thing," Lavinia is saying, piling her own plate sky-high with chicken. "J'hani, that eye thing."  
  


"Yes?"  
  


"How strong is it? I mean if a bad person was running at you and wanted to—"  
  


"I have never had to try, thankfully," says J'hani quickly.  
  


"At least keep your questions tasteful,  _ pia, _ " says Tatianus, smiling beneath his moustache. He shoots Gemile a questioning look.  
  


_ He's fine _ , she mouths, smiling back a little for good measure.  
  


"Will you try it on Tati?" presses Lavinia.  
  


"Why does it always have to be me?" blusters Tatianus. "Get Gem to do it!"  
  


"No, that's weird!"  
  


"Weirder than setting your hapless brother on  _ fire—? _ "  
  


"My apologies. I would rather not do any demonstrations." J'hani clears his throat.  
  


"That will suffice for one night, Lavinia," says Mama sagely. "Come." And she walks out toward the courtyard in her dignified way, as straight as a statue. Lavinia follows her, and so does everyone else.  
  


"I'm sorry I had to disappear," says Gemile, picking a green bean from her plate and popping it into her mouth. "Has it been bearable so far?"  
  


"Perfectly bearable," grins J'hani. "Thank you."  
  


They gather around the fire-pit in the courtyard—Mama lights a roaring fire with an idle flick of her wrist, the open square in the ceiling carrying out the smoke. And finally Papa speaks. But not to Gemile.  
  


"J'hani. How are you finding Cheydinhal?"  
  


J'hani glances at Gemile before answering, cautiously, "Warm, sir. Especially given that I came from Bruma. I like it very well."  
  


"Good. You have no intention of returning home, then?"  
  


"Marcus," says Mama quietly.  
  


"As I said, sir, I'm fond of Cheydinhal."  
  


"As well you may be. And why not? There is plenty of work. I imagine many Khajiit make their homes there."  
  


"Will you please just say what you're getting at," says Gemile, squeezing her eyes shut. She can hear Tatianus trying to usher Lavinia back inside the house, and her protests.  
  


"Getting at? I suppose I am getting at something. To begin with, the fact that you," he glares at J'hani, "are living together with my daughter."  
  


"And what of it?" snaps Gemile. "You got what you wanted. I'm not leeching your money any more."  
  


Papa only laughs, a grimacing, bitter laugh.   
  


Gemile stands and dusts herself off. "Thank you for the food, Mama."  
  


She brushes past Tatianus on her way out—he says nothing to try and stop her this time, only watches her with resentful eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> even though they all kind of stink in their own special ways, i REALLY loved writing any scene where all the caridenii were together. just like....the fabric of a family. love it. there is also a LOT i could say abt the way j'hani and gemile experience prejudice along distinctly different axes but i'll spare you the essay


	28. 3E 387, Last Seed 1

"I c-can't feel my fingers," says Gemile, through chattering teeth. "How di-id you  _ survive _ this for so long?"  
  


"I could hardly die before I had a chance to read your latest letter,  _ khunu'tu. _ Come here," J'hani adds, wrapping both of them in his enchanted cloak.  
  


"Is that w-why you left when you did? Because I stopped writing letters?" she half-teases.  
  


J'hani says nothing.  
  


"Can we go inside, J'hani? I ha-haven't the energy for sight-seeing."  
  


"One sight, then we'll find the inn." He lifts her chin with a gentle touch, making her look far above the city walls. "The Jerall mountains. Aren't they breathtaking?"  
  


And they are. Darkly carved into a stark blank sky is a mountainscape like nothing Gemile's ever seen. Great rock limbs tower into the snowy air, powerful and godlike—completely unconcerned with the comings and goings in Bruma.  
  


"Beaudiful," she mumbles, feeling her lips start to go numb.  
  


J'hani laughs and kisses her cheek. "Let's go inside."

  
  


* * *

  
  


"If it isn't the dandy cat-man!" calls the innkeeper from behind the counter as they enter. "Thought this city would have run you off for good."  
  


"No such luck, Bolgrod," replies J'hani. "Actually, we're only here for the night. We have a shop to get back to," he adds, relishing the words.  
  


"Yours? Or you're workin' for another fletcher? Tell me you're with 'im for the money, sweetling," Bolgrod leers in Gemile's direction, "for he's not much else, has he?"  
  


"He's with  _ me _ for  _ my _ money," says Gemile calmly, biting back a smile when J'hani makes a small sound of indignation. She kisses his temple by way of an apology.  
  


Bolgrod heaves a great thundering laugh and slaps the counter. "Good catch, cat-man," he concludes. "S'prised it's a girl though, to look at you. . .maybe the mead put a little hair on yer chest, hey?"  
  


"I have more hair than you," J'hani remarks, looking supremely uncomfortable.  
  


"I've more where it counts," says Bolgrod, making an unsubtle gesture. Gemile looks pointedly past him, out the far window.  
  


J'hani clears his throat. "I'm sure. Could we trouble you for a room?"  
  


"Oh, aye. The old one's two pieces off now for it's got mould. Lucky you."  
  


"Actually, I was thinking I might choose the one on the top floor with the double bed and the mountain view. . .if no one else is using it."  
  


"Don't pull my leg, cat-man, it's unmannerly for I only have the one. Got a hundred pieces on you?"  
  


"Yes," says J'hani, taking his pouch from his belt and upending it onto the counter. Bolgrod counts them as he pours, barking 'hold' when he's reached a hundred.  
  


"And I'll be old Marukh's uncle," says Bolgrod under his breath. "Who did you rob for gold like this?"  
  


"Just give us our room, will you," snaps Gemile. "And if you insult us for thieves again, mould will be the last problem on your mind."  
  


Bolgrod holds his hands up, giving J'hani a smile he must think is conspiratorial, but which only comes across as terribly smarmy. He hands over the key to Gemile, who marches past him and up the stairs without any further ado.  
  


J'hani has caught up to her by the time she reaches the door, and stands behind her and puts his arms around her waist as she turns the key. She shrugs him off, feeling a vague, directionless frustration.  
  


"Gem," he says softly, as she starts to peel away a few of her many layers.  
  


"Don't try to lecture me. He was just—repulsive."  
  


"I  _ know, _ but—"  
  


"But?"  
  


"We don't have to put up with him for very long at all. You know that, Gemile, and you still—"  
  


"I still don't want to be walked over! You're all right with 'cat-man'? That's your right, but—"  
  


"It's only his way."  
  


"I don't care what his way is."  
  


"I just don't see how you. . ." J'hani trails off. ". . .no. I can hardly blame you for defending yourself. I'm tired, that's all."  
  


"Me, too." Gemile undoes her boots and lays on top of the sheets, watching as J'hani ushers aside the heavy curtains and white light spills into the room. "Mountain view," she says, unthinking.  
  


"The only good thing about this city. Second to you, now that you're here with me."  
  


" _ Cor meum. _ Come lay down." He does, settling next to her on the bed, and she rests her head on his shoulder. "Tell me about Bruma."  
  


"Is there anything specific you'd like to hear?"  
  


"I mean how was it?"  
  


"I really didn't see too much of the city, unless I was there to ask after work."  
  


"What about the butter market?"  
  


"The—what?"  
  


"Across from the butter market, west of the Chapel of Talos."  
  


"Oh, I love you," blurts J'hani—without blushing at his own boldness, without a ghost of a stutter. "I love that you remembered," he adds.  
  


"Of course I remembered." Gemile shrugs, feeling her face heat. She runs her fingers through J'hani's hair.  
  


"Well, it was nice. The butter market. That was only what they called it, of course—they sell milk and eggs and meat as well. Sometimes if I went there at the end of the day, the wives of the merchants would sell to me at half price."  
  


"Are the eggs any good in this cold?"  
  


"Not really. They're very runny and the yolks tend to be greyish. But I appreciated the gesture."  
  


"Yeah."  
  


"I think I would have liked perhaps to keep a few animals and sell off the eggs and things, but livestock are so expensive. . ."  
  


"Farming?"  
  


"Why not? Better by miles than some of the other jobs I did."  
  


"Was it here where you were a server? In this inn, I mean?"  
  


J'hani blows out a long sigh. "Yes." He tries to think of something to say. ". . .Yes," he repeats instead.  
  


"I can't fathom working under that Bolgrod."  
  


"He was fine, I think, for the most part. He was a true gentleman compared to some of his patrons."  
  


"I'm sorry."  
  


"After the fletcher," says J'hani, smoothly changing the subject, "I ran errands for the Fighters' Guild in town. That was almost tolerable."  
  


"What sort of things did they make you do?"  
  


"Oh. I carried great heaps of swords to the smithy to be sharpened. I would rinse out sweaty gambesons. That sort of thing."  
  


"What in the world is a gambeson?" giggles Gemile. "Do I want to know?"  
  


"Sort of a padded coat. Nearly as good as leather. But it makes a man look very paunchy."  
  


"Hm," she says. "Have you ever been in the Temple of Talos?"  
  


"Not personally. I think you know how I feel about Cyrodilic temples."  
  


"Yeah. I hear it's the most temple-ish temple of all of them, they have sermons and lectures and the like." Gemile closes her eyes and nestles in closer. "Give me the Order of Arkay any day."  
  


"Hear, hear." J'hani sits upright. "It's too early to be in bed. We'll wake up muddled in the evening."  
  


"What d'you suggest, then," Gemile murmurs into his side.  
  


"We go for a walk around town?"  
  


"But we just got  _ inside. _ And this place is so bloody cold. . ."  
  


"You can have my cloak all to yourself, if it helps."  
  


"You're bluffing," says Gemile, rolling out of bed and gathering up the cloak.   
  


Bolgrod, on their way out, calls something like 'leaving so soon?'. Gemile ignores him.  
  


"Well," says J'hani, "where to?"  
  


"You tell me—it's your town. Wait," she interrupts herself. "Can we find a hairdresser? And I want to see what sort of make-up they wear up here."  
  


"That didn't take very long," J'hani grins. "The hairdresser is up this way, I think."  
  


He leads her through a series of winding grey streets and up several clustered staircases. After a certain point she gives up hope of remembering the way, and lets her mind wander—where else, for the umpteenth time in four weeks?—to the palace, to Ria and Tinus. Are they really 'well'? Ria's definition of 'well' is. . .broad. She's not tried to sneak him out again, has she?  
  


". . .re."  
  


"What?" she mumbles.  
  


"We're here, Gem." J'hani smiles. "Ria again?"  
  


"I don't want to talk about it."  
  


"I understand. Here," he adds, holding the door for her.  
  


" _ Tonshe _ , J'hani," she says.  
  


He positively glows to hear her say the word in Ta'agra. " _ Na musha, _ of course."  
  


The hairdresser, a wild-eyed old Nord woman in vibrant robes, ushers them in. "Welcome, welcome! Out of the cold at last. At long last. It's you then, my sweet?" she asks, her green eyes boring into Gemile's.  
  


"Yes," she answers. "I don't want much taken off at all, just the ends."  
  


"You'll have to take a seat for a minute or two, sweetest. Two long-haired beauties within the same hour! The very same!" The old woman inclines her head in the direction of the chair in the centre of the room, where a plump Colovian (or Nord?) girl sits, a young girl with an utterly white face and utterly black hair, as long as that of Gemile.  
  


"Oh, Pari!" says J'hani.  
  


"J'hani! Good to see you!" cries the girl, apparently Pari. Unable to leave her seat, she stretches out her arms to beckon him and, when he comes to her, pulls him down for an awkward halfway hug. "And you!" she says, reaching again in Gemile's direction. "Long-haired beauty!"  
  


"Hello," says Gemile. "You two know one another?"  
  


"Bonds forged in misery. Eh?" Pari winks.  
  


"I don't know about misery," hedges J'hani, but the look he shares with Pari makes them both burst out laughing. "A little, perhaps. Pari worked in Castle Bruma with me," he clarifies.  
  


"Miserable!" declares Pari. "Miserable pay! Miserable cold! Miserable accommodations! Miserable!" She smiles as the hairdresser has J'hani and Gemile step back a little ways. "We couldn't afford soap, long-haired beauty. D'you know how you keep hair like this so beautiful and shining when you don't have soap, long-haired beauty?"  
  


"My name's Gemile."  
  


"And mine is Pari. Do you know how?"  
  


"No."  
  


"Ask your man how."  
  


"I have no idea what she's talking about," says J'hani, fixing Pari with a glare that says otherwise.  
  


"Pari, don't be vulgar," adds the hairdresser.  
  


Pari laughs loud and high. "Pray that you don't ever find out, then, Gemile." She turns to J'hani. "I shouldn't embarrass you in front of your wife."  
  


"I would prefer that you didn't, in fact."  
  


"He's not—I'm not his wife," corrects Gemile.  
  


"That, too," says J'hani.  
  


"What d'you mean, 'that, too'?"  
  


"Gem—"  
  


"He means it's only a matter of time," says Pari dryly, as the old woman cuts a great swath from her hair.  
  


J'hani puts a hand around Gemile's waist, probably by way of a 'we'll talk later'. "Do you intend to be bald, Pari?"  
  


"Yes. Some dodgy old elf across town offered me a thousand septims for it. A thousand! For hair! I thought I'd just as soon not have it as have it, so why not?"  
  


"He's not a necromancer, is he? Or a sort who could do anything funny with it?" asks Gemile.  
  


"What?" says the hairdresser, halting her work. "Pari?"  
  


" _ No, _ Mamma," emphasises Pari, glaring at Gemile. "You never  _ met _ a less magical elf!"  
  


"If it was one finger less than a thousand. . ." grumbles the old woman, and to Pari she adds something in Nordic.  
  


J'hani shuffles uncomfortably. "I don't know about this. I—" he glances at Gemile, "Pari, I can't offer you a thousand, but a few hundred?"  
  


"I won't take your money," says Pari, looking squarely at Gemile. "Leave me be. If I thought I was going to cut it all off for free, I wouldn't have spent so many hours soaking it—"  
  


The old woman clicks her tongue. "Enough."  
  


Within minutes all her daughter's hair is puddled on the floor, and Pari's hair is short as that of a baby. It becomes her, little strands falling around her face. Pari, for her part, twirls in front of the mirror, beaming, even as J'hani looks between her and Gemile with a helpless frown.  
  


Pari bids them farewell, and the old Nord woman snips the dry ends from Gemile's hair.  
  


"Could I ask you to let me plait it, my sweetest?" asks the woman in a low, secretive tone.  
  


"No, I'm—"  
  


"No charge," adds the woman. "Simply that I'm going to miss my daughter's hair."  
  


"Are you certain?" But the woman has already started work on what quickly starts to feel like a tapestry streaming out from Gemile's scalp.  
  


"Oh," says J'hani softly, when he comes around to look. "Roses."  
  


It takes another hour for Gemile to see what he means, when the woman finally finishes her work and circles her with a mirror so that she can see it from every angle. The top layers of her hair are gathered back in three delicately wrapped buns, one large and two smaller supporters, that call to mind roses in bloom. Two plaits enclose the blooms and meet in the centre. The lower two-thirds of her hair are lightly curled and otherwise untouched, tumbling across her shoulders and down the length of her back.  
  


The charge is ten septims for the trim. Gemile doesn't need J'hani's light elbow in her side to beg her to pay extra. She places thirty on the counter. J'hani leaves his entire coin pouch—five hundred? Six?—on the condition that the old woman not sell off Pari's hair. Gemile bites her tongue until they're well out of the shop.  
  


"All of it? Was that necessary?"  
  


"We have enough."  
  


"Not if we throw money at everyone in sight we won't."  
  


"Take a moment and s—take a moment," says J'hani, in carefully measured tones, "and think of what you would do if Lavinia was going to sell  _ her _ hair to some old. . .deviant. . .for the sake of some coin. You wouldn't—" he stops again and runs a hand through his hair, "wouldn't you do everything you possibly could to remove the problem of money?"  
  


"I'd tell her to work, if she wanted more money than she's got. I didn't get the impression that Pari and her mother were starving—"  
  


"And no one should ever aspire to more than. . .not starving."  
  


"Then let her sell it if she wants! If she understands the risk."  
  


"She's  _ fifteen _ . Gemile. . ." J'hani draws a shallow line in the snow with the toe of his boot. "Shall we find the cosmetics shop?"  
  


"Let's."  
  


As they walk, J'hani reaches out to touch one of the rose-shaped pieces in Gemile's hair, with a sort of tentative awe. "You look beautiful."  
  


"The hairdresser did a lovely job." But, she thinks, she must look awfully plummy. Passers-by give her lingering looks. She's relieved to be able to duck inside the cosmetics shop—"Briljye's Beauty Repository". That'll be another Nord.  
  


The mounted bell rings cheerfully as they step inside, and Briljye herself greets them with the same joy. "Good day!" she chirps. "Briljye. Tell me your wish."  
  


"I'd like to look around first," says Gemile.  
  


"Of course! Look as you will!"  
  


Every inch of every wall is lined with shelves. Some bear little pots of red paint, for lips and—on pale women—cheeks. Others, eye-paint in outlandish colours and some stuff in tiny wooden grinders that must be a kind of eye-liner. It smells funny and leaves a bluish cast, nothing at all like the dark-brown sandalwood kajal of Gold Leaf Moor.  
  


On the final shelf are coloured face-creams, the darkest of which is about the colour of sand, and reed brushes with which to apply them. Biting her lip, Gemile takes a bit of the whitest shade and stripes it across her cheek, then turns to look at J'hani. "What d'you think? My colour?"  
  


He snorts. "Not quite."  
  


Briljye watches them with a curdled expression as they leave.   
  


Gemile decides to leave the stark white stripe where it is as they walk through Bruma's market district, window-shopping, dipping in to look at antiques and curiosities. Neither of them know enough to properly appraise any of the stuff—not to mention the fact that they're down to two hundred septims, which also has to cover the trip home—and so they leave it at looking.   
  


Around sunset, the chanting from the temple of Talos draws Gemile's attention. The doorman informs her that on Loredas evenings, the temple folk begin a chant, hours long, first in Nordic and then Cyrodilic, detailing the life of Talos.   
  


J'hani rubs the back of his neck. "I'd prefer to go back to the inn, Gem, if it's all the same to you."  
  


"Yeah, let's do."   
  


As they approach the inn, Gemile thinks of rubbing away the white mark and taking down her hair, but dismisses the thought, instead steeling herself for whatever inane thing Bolgrod's going to—  
  


"Well! What's gotten at you, pretty thing?" He squints as she draws closer, holding J'hani's hand. "Taken to war-paint, have you?"  
  


"No."  
  


"Fine, fine, don't need to get curt. I was only asking for I could surely show you a thing or two about war-paint. You know my father was with the Companions of Skyrim?"  
  


"All due respect, Bolgrod," J'hani cuts in, "we were just about to go to sleep—is there any chance that we could get something to eat first?"  
  


"Oh, aye. Haven't tossed anything in the pot just now for it's still early, so be easy for a bit and wait, there's a lad."  
  


J'hani sinks into a nearby chair, raising his eyebrows resignedly at Gemile, and she has to giggle as she joins him at the table.  
  


Silently, he moves a long black lock of hair out of her face—then, changing his mind, draws it out again and dances it between his fingers.   
  


Bolgrod, having tossed any necessary ingredients in the pot, clacks over to them on his wooden leg and sets down two bottles of honey mead hard on the table. "Crack a bottle while you wait!" To Gemile he adds: "Alas, we don't carry wine."  
  


Bristling, Gemile starts to speak, but she catches J'hani's eye, and instead settles for: "We didn't order these."  
  


"It's on me. Small price for a lovely lady. And you, I suppose," he guffaws, inclining his head in J'hani's direction.  
  


"I am. . .very much obliged," mumbles J'hani.  
  


Dinner is meat and potatoes, utterly unseasoned, which is not so much surprising as it is disappointing. Gemile eats about a third of the heaping plate (J'hani makes it just over halfway through his) before they retire for the night.  
  


"You know," says Gemile sleepily, stepping out of her skirt, "whenever I meet someone so crass it always makes me think of my sister."  
  


"Your—? Not Lav—"  
  


"Martina. The one Tinus is. . ." She falls onto the bed, flooding with new appreciation for the softness of the mattress and the sheer volume of blankets and pillows.   
  


"Is she as bad as all that?"  
  


"No. No. . .ow." Something hard and round pokes her in the back of her head, and she sits up, remembering all the bits and bobs it must have taken to hold up the roses in her hair. "Pins."  
  


"Come here," says J'hani, climbing onto the bed with his own shirt still haphazardly half-buttoned. He starts to ease the pins from her hair. "Tell me if I'm hurting you."  
  


"Mm. She's married now, you know."  
  


"Martina?"  
  


"In Summerset. With a woman elf."  
  


"Oh." They sit for a while, until Gemile feels one of the roses come undone and the hair spill down her back. "That's one. Do you find that strange?"  
  


"What?"  
  


"That she'd. . .marry a woman."  
  


"Not strange," she says, starting to shake her head before she remembers to keep still. "Oh, sorry. No. I think. . ." And she says nothing. Her heart pounds.  
  


"What do you think, my love?" asks J'hani, sounding like he's smiling.  
  


"I think I could do it too. Marry a woman, if I was, er, inclined that way. I love  _ you, _ obviously, and so it's  _ you _ I'd want to marry, if anything, but I—all I mean is that—"  
  


"Shh," he says, gathering her hair to the side and kissing the tip of her ear. "There's no need."  
  


"No—?" Gemile turns to face him. "You're very sober about this. You—you—"  
  


"I'm. . .?" J'hani laughs to see her vexed expression. "Yes? Go on?"  
  


"What are you—?" she fusses.  
  


"What am I—?" he prompts her.  
  


"What do you  _ know _ that's making you so fucking  _ smug? _ "  
  


He thumbs at his chin. "I don't know if I should say."  
  


"Fucking hell. I'm going to bed."  
  


"No!" he says, taking her face in his hands, still  _ laughing. _ Why did she ever open her fat mouth? "Gem, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I. . ." Finally he quiets down, and looks into her eyes with a strange, frank smile. "I'm not trying to make fun of you."  
  


"It certainly bloody well sounded like it. Listen—"  
  


"I know, I'm sorry. I wanted to thank you for being honest with me, and. . .we're the same way, I suppose. That's all."  
  


"The s—? Will you explain yourself, please?"  
  


"Well," J'hani clears his throat, "as you know, Gemile, I love you, and I—wait—did you mean it, when you said that you'd want to marry me?"  
  


"Oh, don't change the subject." His hands are still on her cheeks. She places her own hands over his.  
  


"My point is that while I want to marry  _ you, _ and no one else on Mundus, I—if those were the circumstances, ah—"  
  


"You might well take up with a man."  
  


J'hani sighs, flushing redder than she's seen him in months. "You know this is a very strange and awkward thing to say to the woman you love."  
  


"I don't think so." She leans in and kisses him rather more forcefully than she intended, taking hold of his hair. When she pulls away, he's watching her with familiar, glazed eyes. Gemile bites the inside of her cheek. "Will you finish my hair first?"  
  


"Of course," he says, fingers already flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway bi rights


	29. 3E 387, Last Seed 2 (!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for discussion of like...murder? nothing graphic though

"I hear there are snakes in the Great Forest as long as ten men. What d'you think we'll do against one of those?"  
  


"Die, I expect."  
  


"That isn't funny."  
  


"Gemile, please let me concentrate. . ." J'hani squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and turns a little ways left. "This way."  
  


"She couldn't have come to meet us at the edge of the forest?"  
  


"At least it is warmer here."  
  


Not only warm, but so humid that every breath is a struggle. Something lands on Gemile's shoulder and she swats it without thinking. She looks at her palm. A spindly mosquito the size of a mango. "Ugh."  
  


Just ahead, J'hani comes to a stop, craning his neck to look up at something. " _Dras, fado._ "  
  


The voice that responds is huge and booming, and it seems to play inside the very hollow of Gemile's skull. Her knees buckle beneath her and she falls hard on her backside.   
  


**Dras'kay, ahziss ma'khajiit.  
  
**

Grinning, J'hani extends her a hand. " _Fado._ I have someone with me. Will you come down?"  
  


As Gemile rises to her feet, trying halfheartedly to snap the mud from her light travelling cloak, she sees what J'hani is looking at. A great being like a tiger, only a light gold colour, so huge that her head brushes the canopy. Dra'abari Rouvandi settles slowly onto the forest floor, shaking the ground with each movement.  
  


"H-hello," says Gemile timidly, as Dra'abari's milky eyes meet hers. Her head is of a height with Gemile's entire body.  
  


**Hello,** replies Dra'abari. Her voice, resounding in Gemile's head, has an amused colour. Gemile has to grasp J'hani's arm not to fall over again. **_Uradana._ I have no way to speak but this.  
  
**

"That's all right. I'm. . .getting used to it."  
  


**Hani speaks often of you.  
  
**

"Hani?" Gemile smiles.  
  


J'hani blushes. "Before I had any prefix to speak of, that was my name. _Years_ ago," he adds, loudly, for Dra'abari's benefit.  
  


**Of course,** **_ma'khajiit_ ** **. I hope your trip here has not been too taxing.  
  
**

"Not at all."  
  


"It—" Gemile starts to say. J'hani shoots her a look. "I've never been in the Great Forest before."  
  


**Few have. When Hani and I lived in Leyawiin, we were on the border with Black Marsh, and still it was not so. . .** **_saba. . .  
  
_ **

"H—ah, hostile?" supplies J'hani.  
  


**So hostile as here. Beautiful, though. And I am a match for all things of this forest.  
  
**

"What's Leyawiin like?" asks Gemile, giving up on her cloak and spreading it on the ground to sit on.  
  


**Colourful. Full of Khajiit, full of** **_sakhliit_ ** **—and this. . .brings. . .much resentment to the Count.  
  
**

"Oh?"  
  


**He thinks it is. . .bad, for the culture of his city.** Dra'abari blinks slowly. **I say we are all the culture his city has.  
  
**

"If he's anything like the Count of Cheydinhal, I'm sorry."  
  


**You are familiar with the Count of Cheydinhal?  
  
**

"He's the one who paid for us to set up shop there. And he has my dagger."  
  


**Ah. That sounds like a story.**

  
  


* * *

  
  


". . .and I'm sure he blames _me_ for walking out," Gemile finishes, "but on the hand of Arkay, if there was even one sane person in that house, they wouldn't need me there!"  
  


**Surely he doesn't expect that you can come in and fix all his problems!  
  
**

"I know! Sometimes—"  
  


"I hate to interrupt," says J'hani, "but we need to be getting back, _fado._ We haven't the coin for another night in Bruma after this."  
  


Gemile sighs. "Well, we _would_ have, only—"  
  


**This has been lovely, Gemile. Thank you for regaling me.  
  
**

"Oh—of course."  
  


To J'hani, Dra'abari adds something in Ta'agra, too quick for Gemile to follow. **I have something for you, Ma'hani. Do'vasha is at the inn.  
  
**

" _Fado—_ "  
  


**Come back and play for me something nice.  
  
**

"Play—oh, _fado, dov._ "  
  


**I have something for you as well, Gemile, as thanks for the drink you gifted to me.  
  
**

Gemile blinks. "The—? Oh, the coconut? How was it?"

  
**I. . .do not remember.  
  
**

"I never cared very much for it either," grins Gemile.  
  


**Still, it was thoughtful. Thank you.  
  
**

They say their goodbyes and hurry to the forest edge, where a disgruntled carriage driver still waits to take them on the six-hour ride back to town. Gemile stuffs the muddy cloaks in a spare burlap sack and lays it down at their feet.  
  


J'hani leans his head on her shoulder.  
  


Gemile smiles and smooths his hair. "You're not going to ask me what I think?"  
  


"She's gotten me a lute. I'd bet all my money."  
  


"All your money at the moment is—"  
  


"I _know,_ " J'hani snaps. "I know."  
  


". . .all right." She sighs, only to herself. "Who's Do'vasha?"  
  


"My stepfather."  
  


"You've never mentioned him."  
  


J'hani shrugs listlessly, his shoulder brushing Gemile's. "I don't very often think of him."  
  


"Hm. I'd like to hear you play."  
  


"I think it would be best if we went home."  
  


"Well, you can take the thing with you, if you're in such a rush—"  
  


"Gem," says J'hani, in a wavering voice. "Please."   
  


"All right." She quiets. "All right."

  
  


* * *

  
  


Do'vasha, as it turns out, is a squat, jovial Khajiit with dark face, tail, and hands, but white-gold fur all down his neck and arms. He's either brought in a bottle of wine from elsewhere, or Bolgrod was lying about not stocking any; either seems likely.  
  


The moment Do'vasha lays eyes on J'hani, he rushes to embrace him, speaking rapidly in Ta'agra (differently affected than the sort she's heard J'hani speak). He hugs Gemile with the same lung-crushing fervour, and she racks her brain to try to sort out the flood of foreign words and pick a response.  
  


"He's pleased to finally meet you. He's—glad that I've taken up with such a sweet young lady. His words," adds J'hani, holding up his hands.  
  


"Oh. _Tonshe,_ " she tells Do'vasha, who bows his head graciously. " _An. . .sala kha'jay_ . Pleasure's mine."  
  


"Ah!" exclaims Do'vasha, followed by another stream of Ta'agra as he takes her hand and looks her in the eye. She is perhaps half a head taller than he.  
  


"'You've found a clever one'," J'hani explains. "I mean, I've—er—he thinks you're clever. Do'vasha."  
  


"Hm? _Jat?_ " asks Do'vasha, turning to him, although he does not release Gemile's hand.  
  


" _Fado purka roj rabeka. . .sarefi dorr ahziss._ "  
  


"She said she had one for me as well!" says Gemile, mostly to show off her understanding.  
  


" _Jat. An dorr Gemile._ " J'hani grins at her. " _Roj zavi kefaka roj._ "  
  


"That went over my head."  
  


"I said that my mother took a liking to you."  
  


"Ah, _jat!_ " says Do'vasha, sitting down at the table he'd claimed and hauling a great leatherbound case onto the tabletop. " _Dorr jer._ "  
  


"Good gods," sighs J'hani, coming around the table and flipping the heavy bronze latches of the case. He lifts the lid—a gorgeous thing which looks like a sitar, only with a figure-eight, squash-like body instead of a round one. As soon as he catches sight of it, though, he drops it as though it's burned him and lets the heavy lid go crashing down.  
  


"Ai!" says Do'vasha. "Oi!" Gemile blurts, startling, at the same time.  
  


" _Na boka_ the bloody thing. Take it home. _Fado kor ahziss na boka dat._ "   
  


" _Ma'khajiit, jer fado krozijka—_ "  
  


"I don't care," says J'hani, turning on his heel and going toward the stairs—brisk, polite steps. Even angry as he is, he won't make a scene.  
  


Do'vasha shakes his head mildly. "He. . .is. . . _jaba zath. . .kuji,_ " he says slowly, considering each word.  
  


_Kuji._ Upset? Broken? Is that _kuji_ or _keji?_ Gemile considers, too. " _Kador?_ Er," she taps her finger on the case. "Was it this thing? _Vaba dat?_ "  
  


" _Jan purka jer,_ " shrugs Do'vasha. " _Ike jer atarrka._ But," he adds, taking a great paper parcel and setting it on top of the lute, "here. _Dorr jer. Fado di J'hani ahziss atarrka dojtha egasatil._ "   
  


" _Tonshe,_ " says Gemile cautiously, having only caught the word 'mother' and J'hani's name. Inside the parcel is a dress—she can already tell it's going to be too large—with a white, bloused bodice and a heavy, pleated, many-coloured skirt, embroidered carefully with little patterns representing the moon phases. "It's lovely," she says sincerely. " _Tonshe,_ " she adds, again, feeling terribly dull for it. "This has been lovely, but I should. . . _jer_ . . .bloody hell. Er. _Jer_ . . .need to. . . _tosuv_ J'hani. Right?"  
  


"Ah, _jat,_ " says Do'vasha, his bright blue eyes twinkling. " _Tosuv jan. An—_ " he says, taking her hand and pressing it to the top of the leather lute-case, " _—traajir dat wo bali._ Please."  
  


"All right," she says, fairly certain she understands his point. Tentatively, she grasps the handle of the case—Do'vasha rushes to click the latches shut. It's heavy, but she manages, the dress draped over her shoulder. As she turns to leave, he calls a whole lot of quick Ta'agra after her. She recognises the last bit. Warm sands. _Ja'fith kaja,_ she replies, and leaves.  
  


She hasn't a hand free to knock on the door, so she taps it with the side of her foot. "Please, J'hani, this thing's damned heavy." He doesn't make her wait more than a moment before opening the door, but the second he's let her in, he turns back and slumps onto the bed again without a word.  
  


"Your stepfather's very nice," says Gemile, trying for a casual tone as she tucks the lute and the dress away in the room's farthest corner. "Was it—was it your blood father who had the yellow eyes?" she asks softly, sitting down beside him. "Because. . ."  
  


J'hani nods.  
  


"Love, it's really late. We'd ought to eat, or sleep, or both. I—" she begins, standing up, either in pursuit of food or to get undressed, but J'hani's hands are on her shoulder, in the small of her back, nothing like tugging, just a request, as thin as spider silk, that she stay. So she sits down again as he lies across her and starts to sob. She kicks off her slippers.   
  


"Come on," she says, "at least let's lie down proper. We'll both have stiff necks." They fumble and lie side by side on the pillows. J'hani seems to want to turn both toward and away from her. He takes her hands in his and holds them tight, and then lets them go and hugs himself instead. It's disquieting. She doesn't know what she's meant to do with herself. She puts her arms around him. He shrugs her off, turns away on his side, then reaches behind him for her arms. All the while, although the room is exquisitely warm, he trembles.  
  


When he finally falls still, Gemile is afraid to move. She's just dozing off when he whispers something.  
  


"Gem," he says, very quietly.  
  


She thinks she might be hearing things—until he says it again.  
  


" _Gem._ "  
  


"I'm awake," she mumbles. _Barely.  
  
_

J'hani turns to her, so that their faces are inches apart, but says nothing.  
  


"D'you want to. . .you know. Something. I'll bother the Nord for some coffee or something," she prattles, hardly aware of what she's saying.  
  


"Coffee?" J'hani laughs hoarsely. "It's the dead of night."  
  


"You can have yours with milk if you r—"  
  


"I don't want coffee."  
  


"Then d'you want to tell me exactly why you're so—?" She sighs and blinks the dryness from her eyes. "Sorry. Wow. I sound like a pill. I'm tired."  
  


"No," he says, touching her cheek. "You don't—er, pill?"  
  


"Like a bitch."  
  


"Oh. Well, no, I don't think you're being a—pill. If anyone has acted like a—"  
  


"Will you tell me what this is about, though." She yawns. "You can't really hate lutes that much, can you?"  
  


"I don't. At least—" He sits upright. "No, I have nothing against. . .lutes."  
  


Gemile sits up, too, waiting. He takes her hand.  
  


"You know that I lived in Leyawiin as a child?"  
  


"Yeah."  
  


"Do you know why I moved to the Imperial City?"  
  


"Well—for the job."  
  


"Yes. . .but the reason I decided to take the job at all. . .I would very much like some water, I think."  
  


"What? Oh, let me," says Gemile quickly, grabbing a shawl from her trunk on her way out, and padding downstairs in her bare feet.  
  


Bolgrod is polishing a tin tankard, the front room is quiet. He's noticed her the instant she sets foot on the stairs. "Lovely night, young miss. What say you?"  
  


"I'd like some water."  
  


"That so? Give me a blink then." He sets down the tankard and swings the rag over his shoulder, disappearing through a side door. His wooden leg clicks. "There," he says, returning with a large earthen jug in hand. The water sloshes with his every uneven step. "From the Jerall Springs. Nothing better than mountain water for the young lady's humours."  
  


"Glasses, too, if you don't mind."  
  


"As you like. Wouldn't advise plodding around down here without no shoes, little thing. That's how this one went," he says, tapping the tankard against his false leg. It clangs pleasantly. "Stepped on a rusted rivet. Not in here, you'll trust, but you never know."  
  


"I'll be up again shortly."  
  


"See that y'are." Bolgrod slides over the glasses. "No charge again. Water doesn't cost me too much up here."  
  


"Thank you," she says, gathering the glasses and the jug and scurrying upstairs again.  
  


J'hani is on the edge of the bed, holding a pillow to his chest. He sets it aside as she extends a glass to him. "I'm sorry. It is quite late."  
  


"Don't be silly," she says, pouring one for herself. "D'you want to go on with—?"  
  


"Ah, what was I saying?"  
  


"The reason you left Leyawiin."  
  


"Ah. I. . .as you say, I left because of the job. The reason I took the job at all. . ." He holds the glass perfectly still, but the surface of the water shivers. "I-I liked my life in Leyawiin very much, as a matter of fact. My father did, as well, until he passed.  
  


"My mother and Do'vasha hadn't the means to have me properly educated. But somehow—still I could not tell you how—my mother spoke with a woman in the noble quarter. Lex. . .ennia, I think, Lady Sybistina Lexennia. An old woman. She was very bored, I think, or she'd have never agreed to it. But she started to teach me. I was perhaps six years old. It was very much for the sake of novelty at first—she did enjoy introducing me at her salons. I made her look very. . .kind-spirited, I suppose."  
  


"Something changed, then?"  
  


J'hani nods. "She started to tell me how bright I was. She spent more time with me—I had to do more work, history and arithmetic and the like, but it made my mother so happy to see me learn, so I did it all. She took on others my age, as well. She wanted to see, in her own words, if we were all so bright, or if I was only an aberration." He rolls his eyes.  
  


Gemile takes off her shawl and tosses it across the room. "She sounds like she was more in it for herself than anything."  
  


"You don't know what Leyawiin is like. If she wanted to remain out of the eye of the Count and his guard, she would have never done any of it. At _least_ she would not have taken on anyone else after me. But by the time I was ten or eleven, it was as though she was tutoring half the Khajiit and Argonian children in town."  
  


"Were you still her favourite?" teases Gemile.  
  


J'hani says nothing, only grins into his glass as though replaying an old memory. "She had four sons, Lady Lexennia, all grown, of course, and no grandchildren but a little girl who was too frail to travel south to see her grandmother. And so she. . started to treat me as a son. She sent money to my family, did things like take me to her tailor, helped me pick out flowers for my mother on her birthdays. She was kind to the others, as well, but not to that extent.  
  


"She had an enormous music room, which I f—I discovered one afternoon when she was entertaining guests and I was free to wander about upstairs. I must have been seven or eight. I saw a great. . .dulcimer in the centre of the floor, with two delicate bone hammers. I struck one. It was the most enchanting thing I had ever heard. Lady Lexennia found me that evening, working very hard at creating tuneless little melodies, and she asked if I'd like to learn music. Of course, I said, and she bade me pick out the instrument in the room which I thought had the loveliest sound, and it would be mine.  
  


"I spent the whole night agonising, but I chose a great square Colovian lute. Not like that one," he jerks his head in the direction of the lute in the corner, "but a similar structure. So I learned the lute, and I learned to sing. I loved music. I would play at home, would play in the streets for a few coins, any chance I had. My mother found me a Khajiiti lute, like that one, and I'd play that too. It's a bit different the way it's. . .tuned. . ."  
  


"But you don't play anymore," says Gemile, already dreading the story's end.  
  


"Well, I. . .I was fourteen when Lady Lexennia. . .could no longer teach me."  
  


"She. . .died? Or—"  
  


"She was _murdered._ " Water spatters from his glass, and he has to set it down. "An old woman of seventy-five, who had never wronged anyone. Never so much as insulted a shopkeeper."  
  


"J'hani—" Gemile reaches for him. Bereft of the water glass, he's clasped his hands in front of him, and still he trembles as if he's fevered. The instant her fingers brush his, he wrenches his hand away, looking ill.  
  


"My mother thinks that's the reason why I d—won't play anymore."  
  


"Is that true?"  
  


"Only partly." He takes a deep, shuddering breath and squeezes his eyes shut. "On the day it happened, I had a lesson planned for that morning. A recital, if you like, with a few of Lady Lexennia's friends as the audience. I was there early in order to practice. I heard nothing. No scream. Nothing.  
  


"I went—I went into h-her study and found her. . .on the floor—standing over her was a young man with a knife. He said. . ." Whatever the man said, J'hani seems unable to repeat it. His mouth twists. "He said something. Also that if I told anyone what I had seen, he would find me and cut my throat, too. And so I haven't."  
  


"Fucking gods. J'hani, I—" Again she reaches for him, with the intent to hug him, and again he jolts, as if her touch was painful. "I'm sorry. I. . .did you ever see him again?"  
  


"Oh, yes. He is with the Leyawiin city guard."  
  


"He's just—? Still? Didn't they ever hold a trial for her? Oh," she says quickly, covering her mouth. "It's time we went to bed. We have to catch the carriage home tomorrow, and everything." J'hani makes no response other than to shake his head aimlessly. She's frightened. She clears the glasses away, moves her clothes and debris off the floor, and lies back down beneath the heavy duvet. J'hani, for his part, curls up as far away as possible.

  
  


* * *

  
  


"We don't need to bring it if you don't want to. We'll leave it as a gift for Bolgrod," says Gemile, forcing a smile.  
  


J'hani starts to open his mouth—to speak for the first time since last night—instead, he frowns at her. Not really _at_ her so much as _through_ her.  
  


"All right. Er. Well, we could bring it and stash it in the back, when we're home, just in case. You wouldn't need to do anything with it. Not even to look at it, we could stick it behind the drapes, we—"  
  


Still he won't speak, but his lip quirks a little, and he takes her briefly in his arms.  
  


"I. . .will I take that as a 'yes'?"  
  


J'hani nods.  
  


"All right. That's all right. That—we'd ought to pay the man and leave, we. . ." She picks up her trunk, having stuffed her new dress inside, and takes the lute-case in her other hand. Heavier than she remembers. A lot heavier. She starts to toddle toward the doorway, pressing the—but no, it's the sort that turns. Biting her lip hard, Gemile sets down the lute, turns the doorknob, and. . .the lute's gone. She looks behind her. J'hani has picked it up. He catches her eye and nods in the direction of the staircase, _go on.  
  
_

Gemile counts out her money as quickly as she possibly can. She has no intention of leaving any more than necessary, but J'hani nudges her foot with his, and, sighing, she adds to the pile on the counter. "That's one-five and ten on top."  
  


"Oh? Wasn't so much counting on a tip from you, little thing."   
  


"I'm as surprised as you are," mutters Gemile.  
  


"Aye, well, safe travels," grins Bolgrod. "I'll think of you both when I buy myself a bottle of that Tamika's."  
  


Odd choice of drinks for his doing. Gemile says nothing. The last thing she wants is to be roped into a new conversation. "Goodbye."  
  


The trek to the carriage, like all things in Bruma, is long and cold. Gemile takes a last look at the towering Jerall mountains as they pull away. She touches J'hani's arm. " _Cor._ The mountains."  
  


J'hani shuts his eyes and lays his head on her shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its such a shame what ao3 does to italics given how fucking many of them i use....i also have never played eso. does the lore say senche-raht are the height of a forest? probably not. but this is more fun =)


	30. 3E 387, Evening Star 20

"Please, please don't say anything."  
  


Tatianus grins. "You've a bird on your shoulder. You'll forgive my curiosity,  _ avi _ —ha! Little bird with a little bird!" He reaches out as Gemile sits down, perhaps to pet the beast. Ria Secunda nips fiercely at his finger; he comes away bleeding.  
  


"She hates being pet."  
  


"You might have warned me," he says, putting his finger in his mouth.  
  


" _ Verum. _ I might've done."  
  


Real irritation flashes across his face before he smiles and flags down the server, a young Colovian, for some wine. Turning back, he says, "Do tell, though. I know you're not the sort to adopt wild animals. Tina, maybe."  
  


". . .you remember Ria Silmane, from the palace? I wrote you about her."  
  


"Elf girl, somewhat crude?"  
  


"No. She's a Breton. . .long blonde hair, lots of shawls and bracelets and—rings and things, and—er—"  
  


"One loaf short of a baker's dozen, so to speak?"  
  


"I—never said that, did I?"  
  


Tatianus shrugs. "That was my impression."  
  


"Well,  _ her, _ anyway," says Gemile. "She sent me a letter—we think she charmed a bird to get it to me more quickly."  
  


"Letter of some import, then."  
  


Gemile takes the crumpled letter from her pocket and slides it across the table, gently petting the bird with her index finger while he looks over it.  
  


"Funny thing to bring to a dinner," says Tatianus.  
  


"Because I knew you were going to ask!"  
  


"Is she. . .you haven't heard anything more since. . ."  
  


"This was Midyear."  
  


"Well. Shite." Tatianus leans back in his chair and nods at the bird. "Have you given her a name?"  
  


". . .Ria. I—"  
  


"That's very—"  
  


"—don't want to  _ hear _ it, Tati."  
  


Tatianus holds up his hands. "I think it's perfectly charming! First Martina and now—"  
  


"I'm not joking."  
  


"—I'm only wondering when  _ I'll _ have the honour—"  
  


"Stop. Just stop it."  
  


"Sorry. Thank you," he says to the server, who sets down two bottles of Surilie's.  
  


"That's on me, is it?" asks Gemile.  
  


Tatianus sighs heavily. "You know for all intents and purposes I'm still living on a stipend from Papa."  
  


"I didn't mean anything by it. I know it's on me."  
  


"Just wanted to waggle your coinpurse in my face a bit. Can't fault you for that," mutters Tatianus, uncorking a bottle.  
  


"Are you sure you've not had anything to drink yet? Because you're already being sort of a cunt."  
  


"Oi."  
  


"Oi, what? I'm twenty-one."  
  


Tatianus sighs again and pours both of their glasses. "Are you worried about that girl?"  
  


"Ria? That goes without saying, doesn't it? This makes half a year. And she was meant to write me when things were better. So that's to say things haven't gotten better in half a  _ year. _ "  
  


"I posit she's just out of birds to send you."  
  


"Out of—" Gemile sets down her wine glass hard. "S'pose you think you're—"  
  


"Arkay's eyes, Gem, did you fall over and break your sense of humour?"  
  


"I think there's a fairly good chance that something's happened to her, and I'll thank you not to sit there and be an idiot about it!"  
  


"Fine. But, Gemile, just use your head. What sort of horrible evil is going to befall this Ria in the Imperial bloody Palace? It is, literally, the most secure spot in Cyrodiil."  
  


"If you're the Emperor, maybe. . ."  
  


"So, what, you think all the palace staff are constantly mucking about, killing one another with impunity, and it's all good as long as no one touches the Emperor? Does that strike you as the likeliest state of things?"  
  


Reluctantly, Gemile starts to giggle.  
  


"That's exactly what I mean!" Tatianus continues, triumphant. "Amusing, definitely. Likely? No."  
  


"You're an arse."  
  


"That hurts, but I'll live. Now. Shall we set that aside for the time being? How are things with you and that. . ."  
  


"You're not going to pretend you don't know what his name is."  
  


". . .that J'hani boy, I'd have said if you'd given me half a moment to speak."  
  


She sticks out her tongue at him. "We're as good as ever. He's been a bit. . .jumpy lately, but—"  
  


"He always struck me as being a 'bit jumpy'. This is even worse, then?"  
  


"Well, no, it's just, we took a trip to see his mother in Bruma and he remembered something unpleasant. That's all."  
  


"An unpleasant memory indeed to have—"  
  


"Please don't try and pry it out of me. I'll feel like an arse if I end up telling you."  
  


"All right, all right."  
  


"He wouldn't speak for two days," she says.  
  


"That. . ." Tatianus raises an eyebrow. "That sounds extremely harrowing, but I've already given you my word."  
  


"Thank you. I think that's best." She takes a sip of the wine. Bloody Surilie stuff is so sweet and dark, it's nauseating. "How's Nadinandriah?"  
  


"You wouldn't rather ask about the family?" Tatianus watches her over the rim of his glass.  
  


"In a bit. I heard you and she made a deal about moving to Valenwood."  
  


"Well, the 'deal', such as it is, is that we're not going to. At least, not for another. . .oh, seven years." He grimaces.  
  


"Oh. That doesn't bother her?" prods Gemile. "Or you, for that matter?"  
  


Tatianus shakes his head faintly. "That's not important."  
  


"I should think it is! So much for seeing the world, then?"   
  


"I. . .can still see the world in time. I won't be  _ dead, _ Arkay willing. And I hardly see you volunteering, let alone Martina—"  
  


"Volunteering for  _ what? _ " she demands. The bird—Ria—squawks and flees her perch on Gemile's shoulder, settling on top of her head instead.  
  


Tatianus' expression, watching the bird, teeters between a tight smile and a scowl. "You know bloody well what. They need us around, Lavinia and Valens."  
  


"I think Lavinia probably prefers an empty house. More room to experiment."  
  


He sits back in his chair. "Even if that were true, which I don't think it is, what of Valens? You're the only one he'll talk to, Divines know why. He was so much improved for a few days after you were here in Midyear, and then he went straight back to sulking."  
  


"Look—"  
  


"I'll warrant you, Gemile, that if nothing changes, he's going to take the first chance to run out and find a Legion recruiter. Maybe sooner than later. Gods know he'd have fooled me for sixteen," he adds, miserably.  
  


"I. . .don't like it any more than you do, but if it's really what he wants with his life, then. . ."  
  


"I don't think he's doing it because he wants to! I—"  
  


"No?"  
  


"—think he's doing it because he's convinced it's the only fucking thing he'll be any good at! Try as I might, I can't seem to convince him otherwise!"  
  


Gemile breathes out slowly, measuring her words. "Between Papa wanting him for a successor—and hang what Valens himself wants—and Lavinia treating him like he's half-witted because he doesn't. . .know his way around a book like she does. . .I understand why he might feel that way."  
  


"But you're all right letting it happen," says Tatianus.  
  


"I can't—I can't sort that bloody mess out by myself, and neither can you."   
  


"What else can I  do, Gemile?"  
  


"There's a lot of things you could do. You could tell Nadi and her family that you'll stay here and carry on business with Papa's company. But that's not what you want. It's not what I wanted."  
  


"Some of us are concerned with more than our own fancies."  
  


"Really?" Gemile leans forward. "You  _ are _ going to Falinesti. Not right now, but you are. Lavinia off to the Mages Guild, Tina in Summerset, and me here—no wonder Papa's put all his hopes on Valens."  
  


Tatianus scoffs. "It's all my fault, then? I'm supposed to give up more than I already have—more than either of you were willing to?"  
  


"I'm not saying that. Nobody asked you to stay in Gold Leaf."   
  


"No," he says, with a venom in his voice that makes her wince. "Nobody did."


	31. 3E 388, Morning Star 30

Gemile sighs and pulls her work shirt over her head. "All the way to Elsweyr for one bloke?"   
  


"We can't close shop again," says J'hani.  
  


"We could. . .have someone else hold the place down."  
  


"Whom? The bird?"  
  


She crosses her arms. "Quaspus could find us someone."  
  


"Quaspus is already convinced we are incompetent. I don't want to give her more reason."  
  


"But it's three weeks out, J'hani! Or more!"  
  


"I'll write you a letter," he grins. "I'll be home before it is."  
  


"And you can't—" Gemile sighs and pushes the heels of her hands into her eyes. "You can't stay one more day?"  
  


"20th of Sun's Dawn. Any later and—"  
  


"—the whole bloody thing's forfeit. What if something slows you down and you're late anyway? This entire thing is a gamble."  
  


"But we stand to gain much, Gem. If we cancel now, it's only going to make us seem untrustworthy. If, however, I get there exactly on time and everything happens as agreed. . .it looks very, very good on us."  
  


"Not everything's about money, is it?"  
  


"Only in that I would rather have it than not have it," shrugs J'hani.  
  


"Would you rather have me or not?"  
  


J'hani puts his hand on her arm, giving her a strange, shuttered look. "Gem—what?"  
  


"Bloody hell. I don't mean anything by it. I just don't want you to leave."  
  


He sits down beside her, moves the hair from her face and kisses her cheek. " _ Ahziss anada, _ " he says slowly and deliberately. "Everything will be  _ fine. _ "  
  


"You're not going to miss me?"  
  


"Of—!" The look he gives her is so surprised— _ affronted _ —she bursts out laughing and lays her head on his shoulder. "Of  _ course _ I'm—!" J'hani is laughing too. "Gem!"  
  


"What?" she says, feigning innocence.  
  


"Of course, of course, of course I'll miss you, but I think we should do this regardless."  
  


"Hmph."  
  


"Gem."  
  


"I suppose you've another month to find me a birthday present, now."  
  


He winces. "You really must take me for some sort of wretch, my love. I hope you don't honestly believe that I won't miss you for six weeks, or that I didn't pick out your gift days ago."  
  


"Did you really?"  
  


"Yes, Gemile, I did. Just as last year, and the year before that, and the year before that."  
  


"Even the incense, you mean, when Tinus was—when I was turning nineteen?"  
  


"The—ah. That actually. . ." J'hani twiddles his thumbs. ". . .took considerably more than a few days. I had to write my mother. And," he grins, "I had to find a ribbon."  
  


Gemile shakes her head and leans back into his shoulder. She frowns hard, willing time to freeze, wishing neither of them ever had to get up. Hours, minutes, moments pass and J'hani starts to disentangle himself from her. Gemile rises quickly to her feet. "I'll. . .make something to eat."  
  


"Oh, are you—"  
  


"Just finish up your packing," she says. "It's all right."  
  


" _ Benigne. _ "  
  


" _ Libenter! _ That was good!" Gemile smiles, lingering in the doorway. The lute catches her eye, out of its case, propped up carefully against the dresser. It was J'hani's idea, just to give it the occasional passing glance; progress is progress, she reckons. Downstairs, the kitchen. Nothing complicated. Saffron rice.   
  


Someone is playing scales. The sound is terribly faint, especially over the prattling of the old pot on the fire, but someone is playing scales. Plucked strings, up and down. Just when she's pricked her ears to listen in, it stops.  
  


Half an hour, and she comes back upstairs, plates in hand. The lute is on the opposite end of the dresser.  
  


"Thank you,  _ khunu'tu, _ " says J'hani, now with his hair slung into a loose bun. Then, through his first mouthful, "I have your present." He indicates a large parcel on the bed. Brown paper.  
  


The four items inside the parcel are themselves parcelled in brown paper. "OK, which first?"  
  


"Mm," says J'hani, pointing his fork at the largest piece. "Try that one?"  
  


She unwraps it. A heavy, soft bar of soap with an equally heavy scent—sandalwood, jasmine. . ."Lotus?"  
  


"Among other things. It's meant to be very good for your skin."  
  


"Oh, it's—!" She takes a bit of the corner off with her nail and rubs the soap-flake between her finger and thumb. The texture is just the same as the expensive cream Mama always buys. "Not cheap, was it?"  
  


He touches his chin. "I don't think you're meant to ask me that, my love."  
  


"It's lovely, is my point."  
  


"I'm glad. Would you like to try those two next?"  
  


"Mhm." Two long teardrop shapes. She tears the paper with a gentle hand. Glass phials, one purple and the other blue, with flower-shaped stoppers. "What are they?"  
  


"That one," says J'hani, tapping the purple phial as she holds it out, "one drop in an entire tub of water, and you've a hot bath with a ridiculous amount of bubbles."  
  


"Hot—I mean—you do need hot water, though?"  
  


"No. It's warm to the touch, can you feel it? Magic."  
  


"Oh." She unstoppers it. "Lavender."  
  


J'hani nods.  
  


"And this other one?"  
  


"Violet. It does the same thing otherwise. Do you like it all right? They did have vanilla, I kept thinking you might have liked that one better—"  
  


"I do like vanilla," she cuts in, "but I wouldn't bathe in it. These are perfect. Fresh and not too overbearing."  
  


"Really?"  
  


"D'you mind leaving now? I've got a bath to run," Gemile simpers.  
  


"I'll be out of your hair in an hour, I promise," winks J'hani. "—oh, Gem."  
  


"I'm fine," she says, pursing her lips as she passes the back of her hand over her eyes. "Stupid thing to say."  
  


"Sorry."  
  


"No!" She takes a deep, slow breath. "I meant me."  
  


"Here," says J'hani, moving across the bed to put his arm around her waist. "The last one. You'll like it, I think."  
  


The last, smallest parcel turns up a long string of wooden beads. On the end is a tarnished bronze star-shape, and, levitating in the star's centre, a small gemstone. She pokes it with her finger, and it glows brightly. A prayer stone. "Some sort of amulet?"  
  


"Do you recognise it?"  
  


"Had I ought to? —Arkay!" she blurts, having barely even finished asking the question. The design is very different from the amulets her family keeps, but the glowing orange stone and the many-pointed star are unmistakeable. "Has it got magic? All the amulets I've ever seen were just dead metal."  
  


"It confers a minor blessing still. So I am told, at least. It's an antique," adds J'hani proudly, "supposed to predate Tiber Septim."  
  


"Wait." Gemile counts the star's points. "Eight. I've only ever seen them with nine. D'you think—is it really, what, five centuries old?"  
  


"I should hope so, considering what I paid for it."  
  


"J'hani—"  
  


"Nothing excessive, I promise you. I was careful to check our books first."  
  


"Thank you," says Gemile, and hugs him tight. "I never. . .brought mine with me, from home, you know, and then I was never bothered to find one afterward because it wouldn't be  _ mine _ . . ." She trails off, rolling around the small stone in her palm. "Thank you."  
  


"Happy early birthday." J'hani kisses her softly, and she melts into his arms, formless, wanting to feel his presence as fully as she can.   
  


"You played the lute," she mumbles into his shirt.  
  


"Hardly."  
  


"How was it?"  
  


"Fine," he says. "Better."  
  


"Good."  
  


Again time passes her by. It feels as though she's barely blinked but J'hani is already making to stand up.   
  


She swallows. "D'you want me to come with you to the—?"  
  


"I think this is better," he says, fixing his shirt. "I left a note in the downstairs linen closet, as well, for Heart's Day."  
  


"Divines, J'hani—"  
  


"I love you. Please get some sleep."  
  


"I—" Gemile bites down hard on her bottom lip. "Just be safe."   
  


Minutes later, she slips the amulet around her neck, tucking it beneath her nightdress. The stone is a tiny point of warmth in the centre of her chest.


	32. 3E 389, Midyear 30

The moons are greater and clearer than Gemile's ever seen them. Below, the Valus Mountains, dark fingers reaching for Masser.   
  


"Do you smell ash?" asks J'hani.  
  


"You're daft," she tells him. "We're still miles and miles from Morrowind."  
  


He shrugs.  
  


Gemile breathes in the warm night air. "They're pretty, aren't they? The mountains. Just like in Bruma, only not so bleeding cold."  
  


"Mm."  
  


"You're quiet."  
  


J'hani lifts his head. "Am I?"  
  


"I thought you'd enjoy the scenery more. This was your idea."  
  


"I do! I am. Gem, I-I—"  
  


"Oh, no. Something's wrong, isn't it."  
  


"Please, Gemile. I'm going to lose my nerve."  
  


"What? Why?"  
  


"Fucking gods," he says, laughing breathlessly to himself, and moves closer to her on the patterned shawl they've taken for a blanket. He takes her by the shoulder for support. "Gemile—"  
  


She doesn't catch the movement of his hands in the dark: the ring, when it comes, is a sudden bright dot.  
  


"Pray,  _ cor, _ what am I looking at?" She smiles, feeling briefly dizzy.  
  


"This stone," says J'hani, in a tone she's never heard from him before, "is called  _ kethba kha'jay, _ although it has little to do with the moons. It's named for the colour; red as Jode by day, white as Jone by night. In—"  
  


"J'hani—"  
  


"My heart, I'm nearly finished. In Elsweyr,  _ kethba kha'jay _ are most often used. . .decoratively. . .as part of an engagement piece."  
  


Gemile's heart pounds. "So is that for me, then?"  
  


"If you want it." J'hani shakes his head and mumbles something in Ta'agra to himself. "No, what I mean to ask you is this: Gemile Marciana Caridenius. Would you marry me?"  
  


"Would I—oh," she says dumbly. "I." Her voice has fled. She finds herself dandling her head up and down. "Yeah— _ ita _ —I—yes. Yes. Yes." She clears her throat. ". . .yes! Yes." She flings her arms around his neck and buries her face in his shirt. "Oh, J'hani," she says, when she's seen fit to pull away, "are you certain? With me?"  
  


J'hani laughs a short, bewildered laugh. "Do you know where I bought this ring?"

  
Sainted Alessia, he's getting at something—he expects her to think. At this moment. "I—I suppose if the stone's from Elsweyr, er. . ."  
  


"When was the last time I set foot in Elsweyr?"  
  


"Delivering that jewelry box," sniffs Gemile, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Last year?"  
  


"A year and a half, or thereabouts," he says. "I prayed to the gods that I would have the chance to use it. . .that you would accept it."  
  


Her mouth works, but no words come to her. "For a year and a half?" she finally says. "You didn't have any doubts at all?"  
  


"Not once."  
  


"Well, you don't know what you've done." Gemile beams. "D'you know what goes into a Nibenese wedding?"  
  


". . .No?"  
  


"Well. First we've got to get the priests to pin a date based on both our stars, then comes the formal engagement, and the invitations have got to go out—Arkay's hand, we have to track down Martina! Then we have to get them to do up the temple for a wedding—unless you want to do it at my family's house—I don't suggest that—and food and everything, and more priests for the day of, obviously, and then the day before the wedding you have to go off somewhere with your side and not come back until the afternoon of the day itself.  _ Then _ the real mess begins."  
  


"You're joking."  
  


"Do I look like I'm joking?" She giggles to see J'hani's baffled expression. "You've got no idea at all. Is that making you doubt yourself?"  
  


"No." He shrugs. "It's only one day."  
  


"Two days, really, if you count the day before, which you should, because there's a load of rituals beforehand. And the reception might well take us into the morning. And three days afterward we have to come back and say our final goodbyes." Gemile crosses her legs. "I suppose it's more harrowing if you haven't already left home."  
  


J'hani smiles. "You are very knowledgeable. But none of your siblings are married, are they?"  
  


"Well—cousins and cousins of cousins and things like that. Family friends. Getting married is sort of the local sport. You know how it goes."  
  


"I honestly do not."  
  


"It'll be loads of fun," she says, taking his hand, gently running her thumb over his knuckles. "My parents might be a bit of a pain, but you already know Lavinia likes you, and so will Martina if she's there, and my brothers will be lovely, if they can act their age for two days."  
  


"So. . .a Nibenese ceremony, then."  
  


"Well—yes?" Gemile pauses. "Have you got other ideas?"  
  


"I would. . .I have been doing some reading, on wedding customs in Elsweyr. Not—well, cursory research, all of it, of course, but—"  
  


"What's an Elsweyr wedding like?"  
  


J'hani walks his fingers along her arm. "Informal, as are most things among the Khajiit. But there are a few rituals carefully observed."  
  


"Yeah?"  
  


"One—well, I suppose—it's—it is important that the exchange of vows happen at sunset." He shrugs. "Something to do with the blessing of Azurah and the moons."  
  


"Oh, that'll happen anyway. The wedding stuff lasts until about sunset, then there's the joining, then some stuff after."  
  


"For the vows, we kneel in front of an altar to the moons, or to Mara, and—"  
  


"Mara, I think. My parents won't be thrilled with—"  
  


"—and a priestess says a blessing to the moons, to Riddle'Thar, Azurah, Sanguine—"  
  


" _ Sanguine? _ "  
  


"And we each imbibe a cup of distilled moon sugar," J'hani finishes, with an irritable note in his voice.  
  


Gemile frowns. "There's plenty of moon sugar to be found in Cyrodiil, but doesn't that stuff. . .make you. . .?" She gestures vaguely.  
  


He closes his eyes for a second. "It would be a small amount, I think."  
  


"Is that the entire ceremony?"  
  


"The final part is tricky, considering that you don't have a tail."  
  


"Tell me anyway."  
  


"Well—what's meant to happen is that a priest ties our. . .tails together, and a bell is affixed. Then we move into a tent, which is there for that exact purpose—"  
  


"What purpose?"  
  


J'hani grins. "We're to consummate the marriage then and there. The priest is outside, with instructions only to untie us when he hears the ringing of the little bell."  
  


"Deviants, the lot of you!" Gemile giggles. "In front of a priest, too!"  
  


"Put it down to a cultural divide," says J'hani, flatly, refusing to join her in her laughter.  
  


"I didn't mean—"  
  


"I know. No harm done."   
  


"We should go and see my parents tomorrow," she says.  
  


"Why all the haste?"  
  


"They've got to help us figure it all out! And they'll want us at home. I think. . .I think I'll need to ask my father to have one of his friends hold the place down."  
  


"All right," says J'hani tentatively. "Can it wait one day?"  
  


"I. . .suppose, but—?"  
  


He cuts her off with a kiss—as hot and airless as the night air around them. She smiles into it, and pulls him close. Here's the part she's forgotten about.  
  


"We're going to be  _ married, _ Gem." He takes her left hand and kisses the ring, the back of her hand, the crook of her elbow.  
  


"You're being silly!" Gemile shrieks with delight when he takes her earlobe in his teeth. "Come off it, J'hani!"  
  


"You," J'hani says, between breaths, "are going to be. . ." He kisses her mouth again, shortly, ". . .my. . .wife."  
  


"Is that right?" She lies down in his lap. "Gemile Marciana Caridenius Rouvandi. That's a bloody mouthful." Grinning, she glances up at him. "It could be worse. The oldest families give all their daughters the same name. I'd be Martina Secunda. Lavinia would be Martina Tertia—"  
  


"Sweet stars."  
  


"—so: Martina Secunda Marciana Caridenius Rouvandi."  
  


"Terrifying," J'hani deadpans, carding through her hair with his fingers.  
  


"I could do worse, if I added my grandfather's name and his father's name. And I suppose I technically am Gemile Prima. Also Gemile Major and Minor, since I'm the only—oh, that reminds me! You'll need to know a bit about the family deity, that's Domina Ansei. She's—" J'hani's hands slowly go still. Gemile reaches for him and twines their fingers together. "Right. D'you want to forget the wedding talk for a bit?"  
  


"No!" he says, and clears his throat. "I mean—I think we should celebrate, just the two of us, before we start to lose ourselves in planning."  
  


"We'll take tomorrow off," promises Gemile.  
  


"I fondly hope that we do," begins J'hani, "because tomorrow is Sundas."  
  


"Oh. You do plan ahead, don't you?"   
  


He squeezes her hand. "I certainly try."


	33. 3E 389, Frostfall 10 (!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very mild warning for like. vague references to domestic violence

Dominus Olcedius drones. Lavinia sneaks a grape from the ceremonial platter. Not for the first time, Gemile catches J'hani's eye from the other end of the room. He gives her, once again, the same long-suffering smile.  
  


Martina elbows her under the table. "So how was the engagement?" she whispers.  
  


"We're not to talk," says Gemile. "He'll bark at us."  
  


"Let him bark."  
  


"It was nice. Awkward. You were meant to be there, you're a sumangali now!"  
  


"I know, I know. _Laus Arkay_ that I got here when I did!" Martina shoots a glance at J'hani, then at Olcedius. "Bloody hell, I'm so glad I had a simple wedding."  
  


Gemile bites her lip. "Thanks, Tina."  
  


"Well, I don't mean anything by it, obviously. I think—"  
  


"You know I'm not standing here for my health," snaps Olcedius, a spindly old man with long, wispy hair and a hairline which has retreated far behind his ears, "If the bride-to-be—of all people—could keep her thoughts to herself."  
  


" _I_ was talking," says Martina smoothly.  
  


"Marcus," implores Olcedius.  
  


" _Satis,_ " snaps Papa. "Both of you." Mama screws her eyes shut and pinches the bridge of her nose. Lavinia takes the opportunity to filch another grape.  
  


"Now, then."  
  


Gemile shrinks into her seat. She turns her attention to the rest of the room—Martina, arriving late last night, was the straggler. Everyone else is here: on J'hani's end, Do'vasha and an Ohmes girl (Ajirra; apparently an old friend) with tattoos emblazoned across her face. Dra'abari is nowhere to be seen, but she was here last night. Gemile's side is considerably larger: outside of Mama, Papa and her siblings, there's _avia_ Silacia, Mama's mother, and _mamulla_ Rora, Papa's mother. Shalha is here as an acting sumangali, as well as several aunts and numerous cousins.  
  


"Having thus been made aware of the terms of this nuptial agreement," says Olcedius at last, "in which have been specified the obligations of both parties before one another and before the gods, are the heads of the two households—that is to say, Master Marcus Aemilianus Caridenius of Gold Leaf Moor and Master Do'vasha Sijoni of Bruma—willing to declare their accordance?"  
  


Papa reaches for one of the pens laid out on the platter. Do'vasha does the same, but J'hani places a hand on his arm. "Er—could I interject?"  
  


"As you will," sighs Olcedius, looking ready to uproot the remainder of his grey hair.  
  


J'hani stammers. "I notice that no part of this agreement addresses the—er—responsibilities incumbent upon—"  
  


"Oh, for heaven's sake, boy, speak plainly."  
  


"Well—who is going to plan this affair? And. . .is it our intention to stick fast to Nibenese custom?"  
  


"You've something in mind, have you?" Papa rolls his eyes.  
  


"The marriage of my granddaughter will be carried out according to tradition," says _avia_ Silacia in a high, prim voice.  
  


"And I have no intention, madam, of doing otherwise," J'hani assures her quickly. "I only wonder whether there might be any small margin for a. . .Khajiiti ritual or two alongside it."

Silence.

Gemile clears her throat. "It'd be pretty simple to arrange. . .all that would change would—"  
  


"D'you mean the moon sugar thing?" says Lavinia around a mouthful of stolen coconut.   
  


Tatianus and Valens both whip around to look at her: Tatianus glaring, Valens quietly amused. Gemile and J'hani trade a look of alarm.  
  


"Moon sugar?" shrills _avia_ Silacia.  
  


"It isn't—" J'hani tries.  
  


"Nobody is going to be imbibing any—moon sugar, have I aught to say about it," says Mama, quietly.  
  


"I should have expected," mutters Papa, with a grim smile.  
  


" _Listen,_ " says Gemile. "Nobody is going to be touching any moon sugar. Lavinia, I don't know where you read that, but it's _ridiculous,_ and it's not what J'hani is suggesting. All we're asking is, what, a handful of Elsweyr priests to say the Khajiiti vows during the Seven Paces. And that we take care to tie the thaali at sunset. As would be the case _anyway._ "  
  


"I think that sounds perfectly reasonable," pipes up Tatianus.  
  


"We're already inviting the whole bloody Temple of Arkay, one or two priests more isn't going to tip the boat," adds Martina.  
  


Mama puts a hand on Papa's shoulder.  
  


". . .we'll finish with this tomorrow," says Papa at last.  
  


"Divines give me patience." Olcedius shakes his head and starts to gather up the platter, papers and pens.  
  


" _Colludus,_ " says Papa in Old Cyrodilic, leaning in, " _at the rate you charge, the least you might do is keep your fishwifing to yourself._ "  
  


"Of course, Master Caridenius," says Olcedius absentmindedly. "Very well then. I shall return tomorrow, provided your youngest doesn't gorge herself on the contents of the ceremonial charger again." He glowers in Lavinia's direction.  
  


Lavinia opens her mouth, but a sharp _don't_ from Tatianus stays whatever retort was going to come out of it.  
  


Gemile excuses herself to the bedroom wing and sits on her old bed, bracing herself.  
  


J'hani comes in without a word and closes the door behind him. "So much for the moon sugar."  
  


"Listen."  
  


"I don't—"  
  


" _Listen,_ " she says. "I was going to fight for you, but the way Lavinia brought it—everyone just got closed off—it was that or nothing at all."  
  


". . .'ridiculous'? Was that called for?"  
  


"You don't know my family. They hear one thing and it's—"  
  


"But I'm not talking about your family."  
  


"Then what would you rather I did? Sit and bite my tongue while you tried to convince them? D'you know what would have happened? They would have gone 'bollocks to all of that' and just planned an utterly normal Nibenese wedding for us. Is that what you want?"  
  


"I want," says J'hani unsteadily, "I want to feel like I'm not. . .fighting the current for every tiny thing. Your family does realise that I'm getting married just as well as you are?"  
  


"They. . .don't know how to deal with you, that's all. The last time someone outside County Cheydinhal married into our family was. . .gods. . .my great-grandfather, I think."  
  


"It's easiest not to challenge them."  
  


"Yeah," says Gemile, relieved. But J'hani isn't finished.  
  


"It would make me happy beyond belief, Gemile, if I knew that—even if it was only once—you were willing to take the difficult road for my sake."  
  


"Oh? 'Papa, I've changed my mind. You can go piss up a tree, because J'hani and I are eloping—"  
  


"Oh, Gem."  
  


"—we're going to Elsweyr to eat as much fucking moon sugar as we like and tie our—"  
  


She's looking at the ceiling, not at J'hani, so when the door slams—that is—it closes politely, but firmly—she startles.  
  


Will she go after him? She'd sooner die than fight in the house, in front of everyone. Damn it all. _Damn_ it all. She kicks the wall hard—and draws back, gasping, as a lash of pain surges through her leg all the way up to the knee. A moment's blinding panic—was that the foot she injured years ago? Did that—Lor—Lor-bul-something not heal it all the way? She makes herself breathe. That was the left foot. This, now, is the right. Gemile tests her weight on it and breathes in sharply; her second toe, bruised or broken.  
  


"Oh, Oblivion with it." It's workable. She pads out to the living room and through to the front hall, where Tatianus catches her.  
  


"Tati, have you s—"  
  


"Outside," he interrupts her, re-shuffling the empty cups on the tray. "I said he'd better not stay there too long, but. Are you limping?"  
  


"Yes. _No,_ " she says, as his eyes go wide.  
  


Tatianus' voice wavers. "You're _limping!_ " His eyes flit to the front door. "He's not—!"  
  


"No!" Gemile grits her teeth. "Listen to me. No."  
  


"Well, you weren't bloody—" He catches himself and continues at a whisper. "You weren't bloody _limping_ an hour ago!"  
  


"It happened just now," she admits. "I kicked the wall."  
  


" _Avicella mea,_ when have you ever kicked a wall?"  
  


"Avi— _don't_ 'avi'—listen, we. . .can talk about this later, all right? I—can I borrow your scarf?"  
  


"For gods' sakes. Have it off then, my hands are full," sighs Tatianus, indicating the tray.  
  


She draws it from his neck and makes for the door.  
  


"I'm to let you just go out there?" he asks. "After—? How do I know that—"  
  


"D'you want to come out with me and hold my hand?" Gemile stares him down. "My word before all the gods. My soon-to-be _husband,_ whom I _love_ —roll your eyes all you like—would never lift a _finger_ against me. Damn me to Oblivion if I'm lying. _Move,_ " she adds, barrelling past him out the door.  
  


"Limp swiftly," mutters Tatianus, and continues into the kitchen.  
  


It's lighter outside than she expected; maybe Olcedius' reading wasn't all that long, just boring. But it's still winter, and her day dress does nothing to spare her from the chill. J'hani's silhouette is far out in the fields, in the direction of the market. She walks.  
  


"J'hani," she says, when she's close enough not to have to shout. "J'hani."  
  


He does her the kindness of turning around. "Hello."  
  


"I brought a scarf." Tears start to blur her vision, and her mouth trembles for no good reason as she approaches him. "Here." She holds it out like an offering.  
  


He ignores her efforts to drape the scarf over him and kneels in the grass instead. "Are you hurt, Gem? What happened?"  
  


"It's fine," she says. "My own fault."  
  


"You'll catch something. All the way out here without any shoes."  
  


"Stop it! I'm supposed to—" Her voice catches. "I brought you a scarf," she repeats, on the verge of a sob.  
  


"Come on," says J'hani, rising, "let's go inside."  
  


"No! They'll think we've had a row!"  
  


"I would say we are," he points out.  
  


"They'll blame you. I don't want that."  
  


J'hani sighs as though he's the most exhausted he's ever been. "Well, you'll freeze if we stay out here."  
  


"'S hardly Bruma," Gemile mumbles.  
  


"And thank the gods for that." He rolls his shoulders. "Come on. I can take a few sideways looks."  
  


"J'hani, I—"  
  


"Is your foot all right?" he asks flatly. "Shall I carry you?"  
  


"Stop," she says, plunking herself down in the wet grass.  
  


"Gem, I really think—"  
  


"You don't need to do everything for me!" Gemile bursts out. "I'm going to be the absolute worst wife on Nirn, I can't even bring a scarf, and my foot hurts and it's my own bleeding fault."   
  


J'hani tries to take the scarf and wrap her in it, but she moves away. "I don't want it!" she protests.  
  


"Well, that is excellent, then."  
  


"Sit with me! We'll share it."  
  


She looks into his eyes, yellow-gold in the fading blue of the evening, and he stands and worries the scarf in his hands, and then at last, sighing another heavy sigh, he sits down beside her.  
  


"What happened with your foot?" he asks after a while.  
  


"I kicked the wall. Just like a brat. Tatianus didn't even believe it. I'm sorry about all of this, J'hani, I'm really sorry. I don't expect you would ever put me in this position if we were in Elsweyr and I was staying with your family."  
  


"I hope not," says J'hani softly.  
  


"They're just very rigid, it's frightening trying to go against them all, even just my mother and father are difficult, but my grandmothers and aunts and everyone? Why do you think my sister married in Summerset? Why is my brother going to Falinesti?"  
  


". . .do you think that we should have gone to Elsweyr, then?"  
  


"I think. . ." And she finds herself sobbing again. J'hani throws the scarf around both of them. "I-I've made them all come here now, I can't—they'd never want to see me again if we ran away now. I wanted my family to like you—and me, after everything I've done—and I wanted a great storybook Gold Leaf wedding. Stupid thing to think it was going to be as easy as all that."  
  


"I don't think it was stupid."  
  


"No?"  
  


"I don't. . .well, think of it like this. All things told, I haven't spent very much time with your family at all—it might be a bit early to declare it a lost cause."  
  


"I reckon that's true," she says, passing a hand over her eyes.  
  


"I just. . ." J'hani hesitates. ". . .would like to feel welcome at our wedding, too. I want to know that you want me and my family there."  
  


"I _do,_ it's just—!"  
  


"You, Gem. Not your mother or Tatianus or anyone. I don't care about the moon sugar. No one else but you needs to understand about the vows, about Azurah's blessing. . .all that. But you need to."  
  


"All right,” says Gemile, breathing deeply. “I do. I will. Whatever you need."  
  


"I love you," he says.  
  


"I love you, too."  
  


J'hani holds out his hand to her. "Are you ready to go inside?"


	34. 3E 389, Sun's Dusk 2

Martina fiddles with the woolen thread, trying to coax it into a knot. "Bloody—if only I grew out my nails. Mind you—"  
  


"Bring it around twice," instructs Mama.  
  


"Ah. But I did the other one thrice."  
  


"I think it could go thrice," says Gemile.  
  


"I'm sure it could.” Martina grins. “Bony little wrists."  
  


_ "Twice," _ repeats Mama.  
  


"I know, I know. I'll be thorough, though, it has got to stay on for a while. There," says Martina, knotting the bracelet with a flourish. "That's you all. . .vowed. No more running away now."  
  


"Blast." Gemile rolls her eyes.  
  


"Good thing you have me to do this, and not the Weeping Willow."  
  


"What, exactly, has your brother in common with a tree?" asks Mama, pursing her lips in an attempt not to smile.  
  


"Weepy. Dunno. It's just a name," shrugs Martina.  
  


"'Weeping Wonder'?" suggests Gemile.  
  


"Yeah, that is better. Teach me to try and be witty in your vicinity. What's for breakfast?" Martina asks Mama, making a great show of standing up straight, stretching and cracking various body parts.  
  


Mama wrinkles her nose. "We are fasting. You know this."  
  


"Maybe I was hoping you'd forget."  
  


"You will live. Tomorrow, at least, you will eat as befits a sumangali."   
  


"Too bad I'm not married," says Martina quickly. "But I can pretend, if there's food in it," she chirps.  
  


"Quite," says Mama, disappearing into the corridor. Martina gives Gemile an alarmed look. Gemile shrugs and raises her eyebrows, _ I didn't say anything.  
  
_

"Shouldn't you have gone with J'hani and them to Cheydinhal?" Gemile asks. "Since you actually speak Ta'agra."  
  


"I'm sure they're soldiering through it, Tati and the pipsqueak."  
  


_ He's fifteen, and he's bigger than you, _ she thinks of pointing out. Martina knows, though, she's only playing dumb. She knows. "Yeah."  
  


"It's so bloody weird that you're going to get married. D'you know what that means? That means Valens and Lavinia are next!"  
  


"Not Tati?" grins Gemile.  
  


"I don't think I'm going to live to see him married." Martina waves her hand.  
  


"Are you, er. . .content, to be a spinster?"  
  


"Yes, as far as you lot are concerned."  
  


"But you're happy,” says Gemile carefully. “With her."  
  


"Very," says Martina, sliding down the wall with a vacant smile. "If you're half as happy as I am, all this pomp will be worth it."  
  


"You think it's just pomp? You wouldn't have liked to—"  
  


"Doesn't especially matter what I would have liked,” Martina cuts in. “It wasn't going to happen."  
  


"S'pose not."  
  


"But listen to me sulk." Martina springs to her feet again. "Shall we go for a walk or something? D'you think coffee with sugar counts as keeping a fast?"   
  


"No," laughs Gemile, but she follows Martina outside anyway.


	35. 3E 389, Sun's Dusk 3

Gemile shifts uncomfortably on the cold stone of the temple floor.  
  


"My knees hurt," says Lavinia.  
  


"Mine, too," grins Martina.  
  


"Girls," sighs Mama. "Your knees will have to be patient."  
  


" _ Just like their sort to be late, _ " chortles  _ mamulla _ Rora, who doesn't speak very much Cyrodilic.  
  


" _ No one's late yet,  _ mamulla," says Gemile. " _ We're early. _ "  
  


" _ Look at her defend her man! _ "  _ Mamulla _ Rora laughs harder. " _ You will be a wonderful wife to that cat-man, my dear heart. _ "  
  


". . . _ Thank you, _ " says Gemile shortly. She looks around. The temple altar is reasonably clear of books—far clearer than normal, anyway—and the windows are decked with drapes in oranges and yellows. Even Errandil is dressed in lavish silken robes, rather than his usual tatters. His hair is out of its ponytail, but the change does nothing at all to help the severity of his face.  
  


Finally the massive doors creak open and Do'vasha enters, followed by J'hani, Valens and Tatianus, and Ajirra. The instant J'hani steps inside, his eyes are searching for Gemile, and when he catches sight of her, he runs for her. Gemile barely has time to stand up before they collide. Her foot twinges. "Hello, you," she says, burying her face in his hair.  
  


"Hello yourself," J'hani murmurs.  
  


Papa clears his throat. "All right, all right, it's been all of two days."   
  


Ajirra laughs at that, low and sweet. Gemile has spent some time with her over the last month, enough to know that she speaks little and laughs less. Her eyes sparkle in their frame of tattoos as she takes her seat. Gemile scurries back to her place in between Mama and  _ avia _ Silacia. She watches J'hani as he sits down across from her; he's dressed in a pale gold kurta, probably Tatianus' doing. It suits him wonderfully.  
  


"I should profess," begins Errandil, clasping his hands and looking between Gemile and J'hani, "how joyed I am to encounter you both again under these circumstances. You must be proud, Livia. Marcus."  
  


"I am," says Mama. Papa, for his part, manages a tight smile.  
  


" _ An jer, _ master Sijoni?  _ Vara jer skai? _ "  
  


" _ Jat! _ " says Do'vasha, looking pleasantly surprised. "Of course!"  
  


" _ Va kara aroali, _ " replies Errandil smoothly. "Madam Rouvandi."  
  


**Very much indeed,** comes the thunderous reply from just outside the temple walls. Gemile bites her lip as several of her younger cousins (and  _ avia _ Silacia) shriek. Her direct family have all spoken to Dra'abari before, but she still catches Valens balling his hands into fists.  
  


Errandil smiles and begins the invocations. He leads Gemile and J'hani around each of the eight small altars behind the central platform, petitioning each Divine in turn for their blessing, ending with Arkay as they return to the main altar.  
  


" _ I would like also, _ " adds Errandil in flowing, colloquial Ta'agra, " _ to ask the blessings of Azurah—that the couple are kept by dawn and dusk; Jone and Jode—that the moons light their path always; Riddle'Thar—that the winding path of life untwines itself before them; and Sanguine—that the joys of the Mundus are never lost on them. _ Was that sufficient? I'm afraid I've never done that before."  
  


**A Khajiiti priest could not have said it better,** praises Dra'abari.  
  


"Excellent," says Errandil, swallowing a smug smile. "I will say so again tomorrow, of course, but I wish you both the very best."  
  


"Thank you," says J'hani.  
  


"Thank you," Gemile echoes. "Er—sir—Errandil—could I ask a favour?" She worms the amulet of Arkay from around her neck and holds it out to him. "I'd very much like to wear this tomorrow," she says thickly. "Can you bless it—or—"  
  


"But of course," says Errandil, taking it. "We keep holy water in the lower levels. If you'll excuse me for a brief moment."  
  


Gemile sniffs.  
  


"Gem, no!" cries Martina, cupping her hands around her mouth. "You'll set that one off too!"  
  


"Oi!" Tatianus calls back.  
  


"She isn't wrong, Gem," says J'hani under his breath, putting a hand in the small of her back—and that's enough. Her impending sob becomes a laugh.  
  


"Quiet," snaps  _ avia _ Silacia. "You shall not act the fool here tonight, Martina Marciana."  
  


"No, I suppose I shan't," says Martina blandly.  
  


Errandil returns with the amulet, interrupting  _ avia _ Silacia's further reproach. "Here you are," he says. "Fascinating. Is it an heirloom? It looks to predate the ascension of Tiber Septim."  
  


"It was actually a gift from J'hani," she beams. J'hani grins and holds her tighter. Her heart drops to think of what comes next. "Thank you very much."  
  


"No trouble at all."  
  


"Now," says Mama slowly, "we had best part until tomorrow."  
  


"I can't wait," says J'hani, low enough that only Gemile hears. She hugs him as tightly as she possibly can. After a moment, they let go. J'hani takes a single step backward, smiling faintly.   
  


"Let's just  _ go _ already," grumps Valens.   
  


"Let's," J'hani agrees.


	36. 3E 389, Sun's Dusk 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact this chapter is so long that ao3 crashed when i tried to ctrl-z.....maybe that says more abt my computer :')
> 
> so this is where most of the tamil/south indian influence on gold leaf moor comes into play, in the wedding rituals and the clothing! i wanna reiterate what i said in the preface: i'm not a part of that culture myself, so if there's something i handled insensitively, please let me know!

The water is cold. Too cold to think—too cold to anything.  
  


" _ Is your mehndi already applied? _ " wonders  _ mamulla _ Rora, taking Gemile's icy hand.  
  


" _ The lady gave me some grief last night and said she wouldn't do it, because it wouldn't stain on my skin, _ " Gemile replies. "' _ Too dark _ '.”  
  


" _ Manifest nonsense, _ " says Mama. " _ I told her to leave it on overnight and wrap it, and it would surely stain. You would think that— _ cow _ had never used henna in her life. _ "  
  


" _ She gets that from you, you know, Livia, _ "  _ mamulla _ Rora muses. " _ We Caridenii all have lovely bright complexions. Your Lavinia! _ " she says, flourishing her hand in Lavinia's direction. " _ The very picture of Marcus! _ "  
  


" _ It looks like it stained all right, _ " says Martina. " _ It looks like it stained perfectly, in fact. Don't you think, Gem? _ "  
  


" _ Well, I don't know now. _ "  
  


"You're all being stupid." Lavinia strides over, speaking brusquely in common Cyrodilic. " _ It's just mehndi. It's fine. _ "  
  


"' _ Just mehndi, _ " scoffs  _ mamulla _ Rora. " _ Marcus' nerve, too! _ "  
  


Gemile and Martina share a look. If either of them ever called Mama or  _ mamulla  _ 'stupid'—indirectly or not, grown women or girls—they'd be flayed.  
  


"What makes it 'holy', anyway? 'Holy bath'," Lavinia goes on. "There's no magicka in it. I'd feel it."  
  


"Correct," says Mama tolerantly. "It is anointed with sacred oils and blessed by a priest."  
  


"But the properties don't change. It's still. . .water."  
  


"Some things are more about faith,  _ pia, _ " says Martina.  
  


Lavinia scowls. "Don't call me  _ pia. _ No one's called me  _ pia _ since I was ten. Not that you'd know."  
  


"Oh." Martina blinks as if she's been struck. She recovers quickly, though. "Too bad.  _ Pia _ was cute!"  
  


"It's stupid."  
  


"All right. What d'you prefer, then?"  
  


"My name? Unless you've forgotten that, too?"  
  


Gemile sinks under the water and comes up with a frigid curtain of wet hair covering her face. She draws it aside. "Could we not do this today? Mamulla,  _ can I come out yet? I've got gooseflesh. _ "  
  


" _ Yes, fine. Hand me that towel, child, _ "  _ mamulla _ Rora directs Mama.  
  


"Poor J'hani," says Gemile, half to herself, as she steps out of the tub and Mama envelops her with the towel. "He's got  _ avia _ Silacia and the other two to contend with."  
  


"They're not so bad," says Martina genially.  
  


"They are if you don't know them and you're naked," points out Lavinia.  
  


"Fair enough."

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ —And that her love in its fervour remain as the sky: pure and without boundary. _

Gemile stands and picks up the tray, a fine silver thing which Mama had saved from her own wedding, carpeted with cooked rice and with a stone symbol to Kyne in the centre.   
  


Someone appears from behind the far wall, and she nearly flings the thing across the room.  
  


"I beg your pardon," she says curtly. "The prayers to Kyne are private."  
  


"Oh, I only just happened by," says Errandil, in nothing even resembling a tone of apology. "I was wondering if I could trouble you about  _ Domina _ Ansei?"  
  


"What about her?"  
  


"If you could explain something of her significance."  
  


Gemile sets the tray down and fiddles with the end of her sari—spring green, the first of four today. The skirt comes up a bit higher than normal, in order to hide her scar. "She's the family deity. She came with my great-grandfather on my father's side; he was from Hammerfell. Gemile At-Divad was a Redguard queen of this area in the Second Era, and a sword-singer. That's why—"  
  


"'Ansei'. I see. And you're named after her?"  
  


"Because I was born with the cord around my neck. So was she, according to the tales."  
  


"Thank you. Most informative. I'll leave you to your prayers."  
  


_ I'm bloody well done with them now,  _ she wants to say. "Of course."

  
  


* * *

  
  


In twenty-seven seconds, the priests are going to move the screen. The wedding hall is packed; the smallish, vaulted room brims with distant relations and family friends—even Nadinandriah has made a rare appearance, resplendent in some light-blue garment that resembles a sari, but isn't quite. Tatianus beams at her side. Gemile makes a mental note to speak with her at the reception.  
  


One of the priests—a Cathay woman—counts down from ten in a low, solemn voice. When the screen goes down, she won't touch him. She won't so much as rise from her seat.   
  


The ear-bursting applause begins even before the screen is well and truly out of the way, but—there he is.   
  


In the same colours as last night at the temple, a blazing white sherwani, with a quietly pearlescent vest and a lush golden angavastram draped over his shoulders, setting his yellow eyes alight. Innumerable gold chains and bangles perfect the impression of a Nibenese noble. They match, for now, Gemile in her sun-yellow sari. She grins at him, feeling as though she might never be able to stop.  
  


The exchange of garlands is the last part of the ceremony to happen indoors. Herding them into the centre of the room as the audience takes a seat on the floor around them, the priests hand Gemile and J'hani each three flower garlands. His first one she accepts very sweetly; the second one she dodges, and  _ mamulla _ Rora whoops.  
  


"It's part of the game," she whispers, leaning in to bestow her first garland. "Keep at it."  
  


"Oh." J'hani's stance changes. He takes a garland in each hand, feinting with one, and then, when Gemile jumps to the side, neatly tosses the other over her head.  
  


"That was wicked!" she gasps.  
  


"Part of the game," he shrugs, stifling a grin.  
  


Of course J'hani wins, so far as you can crown a winner after a wedding ritual, and he's gracious enough to let her place her two remaining garlands around his neck, to more applause. She starts forward to hug him—so, in response, does he—and then she catches herself. "We aren't allowed," she says, with an apologetic smile.  
  


He smiles back, a little, looking put out, although he must have had the same directive. As the crowd disperses to go outside, she feels his tail brush her ankle. "That's cheating," she remarks.  
  


"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

  
  


* * *

  
  


"I'll never forgive you for this," grumbles Lavinia, fiddling with her pink, ornamented scarf.  
  


"It's a good colour on you!" says Gemile. "Come on, we have an appointment with a swing."  
  


"I hate singing. Almost as much as pink."  
  


"You have a very lovely voice. And you look well in pink."  
  


"That's—"  
  


Valens bursts in. "I'm meant to come get you." He takes one look at Lavinia all dressed up and makes a great show of hiding his laughter.  
  


Lavinia thrusts her hand up in front of her, not, as Gemile assumed, to make a rude gesture at him, but instead to light up a shock spell. "Did you want to say something? Valens Marcianus?"  
  


He takes a step backward. "Lunatic. Can't wait til they pack you off to the Mages' Guild," he snaps.  
  


"You'll be dead in Skyrim this time next year, so—!"  
  


"Are you  _ mad _ —both of you?" Gemile wedges herself between them. "Put that away this minute!" she chides Lavinia. "Out to the pavilion.  _ Now _ . Valens, you'll tell them I'll be five minutes. Go."  
  


The swing ceremony had been one of the few things she was looking forward to—a chance to sit down, showered with rose water and song. She blinks away agitated tears and prays that her kajal is intact, because there's no mirror in the room.  
  


J'hani frowns as she approaches the pavilion, even as fresh applause welcomes her, and when they're sat down on the swing, the pronouncements made, and the singing has begun, he turns to her. "Is everything all right?"  
  


"Arguing. Were my younger siblings," she says, feeling suddenly exhausted. She blinks again, as quickly as she can, and focuses on manifesting a small smile. "I didn't think it was that bad between them."  
  


"May—ah—most likely you caught them at a bad moment," J'hani reassures her.  
  


Gemile looks around. Dra'abari is pacing on the far end of the pavilion. She waves, and swears she sees Dra'abari incline her head in return. "D'you think your mother's got a decent view from there?"  
  


"I think so." As the rice-throwers take the stage, he frowns at something in the distance before glancing back at her. "What's next?"  
  


"Giving-away!" Gemile brightens. "The last bit before we're actually wed."  
  


"Oh—already?"  
  


"I told you time would fly."  Someone jostles the swing from the side, and she jumps.  
  


"The ups and downs of life," grins J'hani.  
  


"Oh, fie." She swings her legs back and forth, idly. "I hope Ria's all right."  
  


"Which? Breton Ria or Ria Secunda?"  
  


". . .I was talking about the bird," says Gemile, surprising herself.  
  


The moment they've risen from the swing, Papa accosts her. "Good afternoon, madam, I was just looking for my daughter—" He performs an exaggerated double take. "Oh! Gemile Marciana, by the hand of Arkay! You are so resplendent, I hardly recognised you!"  
  


"Very funny," says Gemile, laughing despite herself. She looks between him and J'hani: Papa, in his long white shirt and veshti, both bordered in gold, is the perfect complement to J'hani. "You both match!"  
  


"You can thank your brother and his elf woman for that," says Papa, dully, though his eyes dart with satisfaction between their outfits. He seems to remember something and turns to J'hani: "Your father has got the sari?"  
  


"Yes, although I have not seen it."  
  


Gemile bites her tongue. She caught Do'vasha by accident a week ago; the gift sari is nine yards long and deep red, with a fiery glow that flares to life under the smallest light.  
  


"Good," says Papa. "Now, could I purloin your bride for a moment?"  
  


"Of course, sir," says J'hani, flushing. He bows his head and, meeting Gemile's eye for a moment, rambles off to join Valens and Martina at the refreshment table.  
  


Gemile moves to hug Papa—realising as she goes that she hasn't done so in a very, very long while. Papa places a hand on her shoulder. "Later."  
  


"Right," she says, feeling like a child. "How was the pilgrimage?"  
  


"I was not the pilgrim. I will say this, though: I pray that he makes a better husband than an actor."  
  


"Oh?"  
  


Papa smiles. "He knows damned well by now that it's part of the ceremony, but not to save his own life could he pretend to be put off marrying you."  
  


Gemile shakes her head, not knowing what she means by it, but feeling warm.  
  


"I felt a bit of a fool 'convincing' him to stay," he sighs. "It was as if I were convincing him of the merits of continuing to breathe."  
  


"That's. . ." She exhales slowly. "Are you going to miss me?"  
  


"I fully expect, Gemile, to see as much of you as I have ever done of late, which is to say: nothing at all."  
  


_ You haven't made yourself easy to be around,  _ thinks Gemile. "I'll change that."  
  


"I'm perfectly content, my girl, to see you now. Of course, if you should want to make any return visits. . .oh, I suppose I won't turn you away."  
  


"But—" Something urgent rises in her; she doesn't care in the least to even acknowledge his joke—"You're about to give me away—you  _ do _ —do you think it's right? That it's good, that—J'hani is good, that I'm—I'll—I'll be all right?"  
  


"Gemile," says Papa, clicking his tongue. His eyes are ice chips in the afternoon sun. "When have you ever depended upon a silly thing like my approval?"  
  


She feels tears start to roll down her cheeks. Papa permits himself to take her hand, but his expression doesn't change. "I will say this," he goes on. "This was certainly not what I pictured for you years ago. For whatever my word is worth: you have exceeded my every expectation." And for perhaps the first time in her life, she watches his blue eyes fill with tears. Gemile hugs him; Papa hugs back.  
  


After a moment, though, he holds her at arm's length and they watch one another in silence.  
  


"How's my kajal look?" asks Gemile, knowing the answer.  
  


"Dreadful. Hurry inside and fix it; I'll hold off the priests."  
  


So she does, scurrying as quickly as she can without tripping over the pooling yellow fabric of her sari.  
  


"'lo," says someone behind her. Lavinia, still in her blue sari with its pink scarf, looking marginally less sour. "Shall I do your kajal?"  
  


"Er. . .all right," says Gemile, cautiously.  
  


"Mama sent me after you. I mean, I don't wear it, but I've got a really steady hand."  
  


"All right," repeats Gemile, pouring rose water into a cloth. "Let me finish getting this muck off." As she dabs at her eyes, she observes Lavinia's reflection. "Are things always like that with you and Valens?"  
  


"Yeah? He just likes to get on my nerves. That's not my fault."  
  


"But you do. . ." Gemile swallows away the last frailty in her voice. ". . .love him all right."  
  


"When he's not being a twat."  
  


"Oi!"  
  


"You're not going to tell anyone."  
  


"Oh, no?"  
  


"No," says Lavinia simply. "Last year there was this boy who was trying to get me to kiss him, and I blasted him—not even a big one, just a little fireball! And he picked a fight, and Valens knocked him silly."  
  


Gemile frowns. "Which boy was this?"  
  


"It was Neranus Tragillius. I could have got rid of him, but—Mama says sometimes magic's more trouble than it's worth—people would have gotten all whingey if I'd hurt him, even though—"  
  


"He's been joined at the hip with that Neranus since they were little. And Papa likes Pelivatius Tragillius."  
  


"Well, Papa told Valens off for doing it! But Valens never brought over Neranus again."  
  


"Oh," says Gemile.  
  


"I can't reach you. Come down here."  
  


Gemile bends down a little ways, and Lavinia takes the brush to her eyes with an expert hand, finishing with a flourish after what feels like seconds. She checks the mirror. It's as if nothing ever happened. "Oh, you pointed it!"  
  


"Looks better that way."  
  


"Thank you. Now come on, I think we're late."  
  


The giving-away is simple, and it's always been her favourite to watch. Gathered around on the grass, on either side of the woven mat, are the two families. On the left hand, Gemile's; on the right, J'hani's (with Tatianus, Nadinandriah, Valens,  _ avia _ Silacia and two aunts acting as an auxiliary again).  
  


Gemile smooths her hair and walks, as calmly as she can, toward the end of the mat, then sits down, cross-legged, and arranges the sari and her long plait around her as J'hani joins her. Ajirra winks at her as they both settle. Mama and Papa sit on the two remaining sides of the mat. Errandil begins to recite verses in Old Cyrodilic.   
  


Papa takes Gemile's right hand and gestures for J'hani to extend his. He lays her hand in J'hani's, and covers their joined hands with both of his. Mama is on their other side with a hollowed coconut at her feet. Rather than rose water or holy water from the Temple of Arkay, it contains moon-water sanctified by the Khajiiti priestess. She dips her fingers in it to the first joint and sprinkles the water over their hands.   
  


When the coconut is empty, and Errandil has finished, she and Papa both rise and step backward. Gemile and J'hani look one another in the eye as Errandil kneels to fix a woollen thread about J'hani's right wrist, to match Gemile's. Only when he has finished are they allowed to rise, still holding hands.  
  


The ceremony is technically behind schedule, so there's little time to bask in the moment before Do'vasha presents her with the red sari and Mama whisks her away to help her into it.  
  


"I say, it's tasteful. I should have been proud as a peacock to wear such a thing at my wedding," says Mama, looking over Gemile with approval.   
  


"I never want to take it off," says Gemile, watching the fabric shift between red and gold in the mirror.   
  


"Time enough for preening later,  _ carissima. _ There is much more work to be done."  
  


So there is; Mama strips away all her simple jewelry and begins to build the outfit of a bride. First Gemile’s hair comes loose and Mama reorders it into two layers: a sort of loose bun on the top, and beneath, a trailing, floor-length plait. She pins at various points a wealth of jasmine and orange blossoms, enchanted not to wilt. Then comes the golden segmented belt, embossed with various ornaments to Arkay, and the bulky heirloom neck-piece, and the jadainagam, which follows the line of her plait. She replaces Gemile's plain gold nosepin with one of diamond, which is connected to a stud earring by a fine gold chain. Mama threads many, many bangles onto Gemile's arms, and Gemile watches her woolen wrist-ties disappear beneath them. Next, the mangtika, the metal jewel a small, cool presence in the centre of her forehead. Finally the veil—red, to match the sari, and with careful gold embroidery. As a finishing touch, Mama rereddens Gemile's lips and presses gold pigment onto her eyelids with her ring finger.  
  


"My stars," she says, taking a step back to admire her work.  
  


Gemile plays with one of her bracelets. "D'you think J'hani's going to like it?"  
  


"Has he his eyes?" Mama shakes her head. "You will come and visit." She means this as a question.  
  


"We will."  
  


"Is it too much to hope that you remain in Cheydinhal for a time longer? I cannot have all my children flee me in the same instant," smiles Mama.  
  


"Well, we have a business and everything, we're not going to leave it."  
  


"No," says Mama, biting her lip, "I suppose not. So much the better. Come," she adds, "it's time."  
  


Mama steps outside and flits out of view. It doesn't take long before Gemile sees why: the entire gathering is outside, waiting for her. When she takes her first steps out onto the grass, the sheer force of the applause and cheers nearly topples her over. J'hani comes to her, wearing more jewelry, his golden angavastram swapped out for a deep red one, but otherwise unchanged. He takes her hands, eyes wide as he looks her over, and doesn't seem to be able to speak.  
  


As it turns out, he doesn't need to. Errandil appears from somewhere in the assembly, bearing the thaali, and holds it out to J'hani, who takes it with shaking hands. As she turns away from him, Gemile looks at the sky. Just sunset.  
  


Errandil begins to say something—in Common this time, not Old Cyrodilic, but Gemile can hardly make it out over the thrumming of her own heart in her ears. After what feels like hours, he falls silent, and Gemile holds her elaborate plait aloft so that J'hani can loop the necklace about her neck. The first knot takes a while, he's trembling so much. "Breathe," she whispers. He pauses and obliges her, breathing in and out a few times, slowly, and then smoothly finishing the second knot.  
  


"The tying of the final knot traditionally falls to the sister of the _ groom, _ but in the absence of—"  
  


"Here I am already," pants Martina, pushing her way through the crowd, still fixing the sleeve of her sari.  
  


". . .your timing is apt. —I would invite Martina Marciana to tie the third and final knot. Thank you," adds Errandil; Martina all but ignores him as she strides into the clearing at the heart of the crowd.  
  


"Off with you," she tells J'hani, and comes to stand behind Gemile. "Congratulations, girl," she says under her breath as she pulls the final knot tight, then rejoins the crowd and cheers at the top of her lungs, along with everyone else. This time Gemile really does start to lose her balance, but J'hani rushes to her side.  
  


Together they walk toward the ceremonial fire. The Khajiiti priestess, along with a Curate in orange, begin the final vows as Gemile and J'hani, hand in hand, take seven paces around the fire, which blazes higher and brighter than it has any right to—more than likely Lavinia's doing.  
  


This is technically the last part of the wedding, but still the crowd lingers, apparently waiting for something.  
  


". . .what now?" asks J'hani, with a nervous smile.  
  


Gemile tangles her fingers in his hair and kisses him hard. The final overwhelming wave of noise and excitement washes over them, and then Mama and Papa walk ahead of everyone in the direction of the garden, where—thank the gods—food and seats for the reception await.  
  


"Are you coming?" J'hani asks.  
  


"I need to change into my last sari," Gemile sighs. "I don't want to take this off, it's so pretty."  
  


"It's wonderful. I didn't know what to do with myself," agrees J'hani. "Er—do you have to change?"  
  


"Yeah, my mother will want me to. We'll keep this one for special occasions, obviously." Gemile twirls wistfully, unable to tear her eyes away from the shifting colours. "Come with me."  
  


"But—!"  
  


"No one's looking for us yet. Come on. I'll be behind a screen, don't worry," she grins.  
  


J'hani catches her wrist. "Gem."  
  


"Yeah?"  
  


"You're my wife. We're married."  
  


"Well, yeah. I'd be cross if I'd gone through all that only to not be married."  
  


"You're my wife," J'hani repeats slowly. "'My wife, Gemile.'"  
  


"'My husband, J'hani,'" says Gemile indulgently. J'hani goes positively beet-red, and she squeaks with glee. "I didn't know you still did that!"  
  


"Did what?" he mumbles.  
  


"Aww! 'Husband'! 'My lawfully wedded'—hang on—'my dearest spouse', my—oh,  _ cor, _ " she prattles, kissing him again. Even his lips feel hot. "I love you," she whispers.   
  


J'hani lays his head on her shoulder.  
  


"Oh, come on! I've said that billions of times, it's not even—"  
  


He looks up at her, still quite pink in the face, with his hair all tousled, his yellow eyes shining, and kisses her just beside the corner of her mouth. "I love you."  
  


"Good. Now let's go. Actually," she says, as they amble toward the dressing-house, "you must have something a bit simpler to change into?"  
  


"Not that I've seen."  
  


"Well, if they've matched you to me again, it's a kurta with a pink angavastram or something."  
  


"Ang—"  
  


"Scarf. Like you're wearing."  
  


"Ah."  
  


Laid out on a chair behind her modesty screen is—as expected—a bright pink sari, made of a light fabric. Before she steps behind the screen, Gemile takes a moment and looks out. The dressing-house is for all purposes a large, ornate shed with two open doorways. In one direction are the lights and sounds of the wedding reception; through the other, the road to Cheydinhal and the darkening chill of the night.  
  


"Will you help me with some of this gold?" Gemile asks.   
  


J'hani steps out from behind the spare screen, in his sleeveless undershirt and white dhoti. "Which first?"  
  


"The neckpiece. I feel like a yoked ox. It has this fiddly sort of clasp in the back—yes!" She sighs with relief as he clicks it open and hands it to her.   
  


Slowly, they wear away at the armour of jewelry, until all that remains are the thaali around her neck, the jadainagam that snakes along the length of her plait, the mangtika on her forehead, and a few bangles on each wrist. "That should be enough," she says, and she's about to go and change out of the red sari when something like a cry sounds in the night.  
  


"Did you hear that?"  
  


"Yes," says J'hani, gazing out toward Cheydinhal. He says nothing more.  
  


Again the cry—a man's voice, ragged and desperate. Her blood freezes.   
  


"J'hani, am I—was that—"  
  


"It sounded like your name," confirms J'hani, still staring into the dark with an inscrutable expression. "Someone is coming."  
  


"What? How can you tell? I'm going to go fetch my mother," stammers Gemile, moving unsteadily toward the other doorway.   
  


"Wait," directs J'hani, holding up a hand.  
  


She can see it too—the figure is cast in light as it approaches the dressing-house. Staggering. J'hani goes down the steps to meet it.   
  


"Talin?" she hears him ask, in an unsteady voice. "Is that you?"  
  


The figure makes no reply; he careens dangerously and Gemile finds herself hurrying forward to take his arm. He's big, whoever he is—bigger by far than she remembers Talin—and even she and J'hani together would have no hope of carrying him if he fell. Thankfully he finds his footing and—"Hold on," says Gemile, dashing inside and, with one sweep of her arm, knocks the pink sari and all the gold jewelry off of her chair and sets the chair near the doorway. The strange man needs no prompting to stumble toward the chair and drop into it with a soft sigh.  
  


He has Talin's black curls—and his big sea-green eyes, although he's grown into them significantly. About him in tatters are rough beggar's clothes, unlike anything a young man of his station should be wearing; craggy stubble darkens his jaw, except where his cheek is laid open by a long, bloody cut down the side of his face. Before she can think better of it, she reaches to smooth the hair from his clammy forehead—she supposes she must really take him for Talin, or she'd have never dared. "How are you?" she asks quietly.  
  


Talin turns his head to the side and spits out a blood clot. Gemile looks away and bites hard into her cheek to keep from reeling. "Bad," he says at last.  
  


"What happened?" Gemile presses. "Who—" she indicates the wound on his face. "—what  _ happened _ to you? Are you hurt anywhere else?"  
  


"No," says Talin. "Ah—" He starts to croak something, then clears his throat. "Arm's broken, I think."  
  


"Give me a moment," she says, and opens the long, narrow cupboard in the far corner of the room. "We used to use this place as a shed, so there's all sorts of—" She gathers an armful of cotton swabs, bandages, a few small potion phials, and a balm Mama brews from lady's mantle flowers.  
  


"Gem," says J'hani tersely. "Let me."  
  


"I—why?"  
  


"I don't. . .I think it would be an unkindness toward Do'vasha to ruin the sari. . ."  
  


"Are you quite serious?" Gemile bursts out, setting down the supplies. "It's a dress!"  
  


"You do look nice," says Talin, slowly, starting to smile—wincing when he feels his lacerated cheek. "'m not so hurt."  
  


"Then I'll fetch my mother!" she says.  
  


Talin's eyes widen. "Don't get anyone yet. Please."  
  


Gemile stares him down, but his gaze is steadfast. She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. "Fine. I'll  _ change, _ and in the meantime, you—" she waves between J'hani and the things on the floor, "—this."  
  


She moves back behind the screen and wrestles the cloth-wrapped buttons on the back of her shirt as J'hani and Talin talk in hushed tones.  
  


"Did you come all the way here from the Imperial City?" asks J'hani.  
  


"Mm-hm. It's—" Talin breathes in sharply. "Ah. Strong stuff."  
  


"Sorry. I will try to be light with it."  
  


A brief silence. Probably Talin shakes his head or shrugs or makes some other tough gesture. "You remember Jagar Tharn?"  
  


"Ria's his apprentice," puts in Gemile.  
  


". . .him. He—ow."  
  


"This is a very large cut," explains J'hani gently. "It will fester if I leave it like this."  
  


"I'll keep quiet. I am a Nord."  
  


"All the Nords I have known were quite loud, in fact."  
  


"Not when they're hurt. My father—" Talin's voice catches, and he starts over. "Jagar Tharn. . .he's done something to the Emperor. He's—I think he's sent him into Oblivion."  
  


J'hani pauses. "I don't suppose that is a metaphor?"   
  


"No. Talin Warhaft as well—the general I'm named after. Tharn. . .magicked himself to look like the Emperor. Everyone at the palace is dead, or captive."  
  


The soft rustling of bandages stops abruptly. Throwing on her scarf, and with the red sari gathered in her arms, Gemile steps out. She opens her mouth, but has no real intention of speaking.  
  


"Gemile," says Talin, his blank expression undisturbed even as tears start to cling to his dark eyelashes and drop onto his filthy shirt. "He's killed Ria."  
  


". . .oh," says Gemile, finding herself suddenly sitting on the floor. J'hani is beside her, his bare arm soft around her shoulders. There are blood spatters on his shirt. She turns and looks him in the face; he's not shocked in the least, just concerned for her. "There's a false Emperor on the throne, Talin. Is that what you're telling me?"  
  


"Yes," says Talin, uneasily. He wipes his tears on the sleeve of his shirt, which is so caked with grime that it leaves a muddy trail across his face.   
  


"Oh, don't," chides Gemile, rising. She means to use the end of her scarf, but J'hani holds out a wad of cotton to her. She takes it with numb fingers.  
  


"You. . .are calm,  _ khunu'tu, _ " says J'hani, putting his hand in the small of her back, as he does when he's worried.  
  


Gemile avoids his eye. "What are you going to do?"   
  


"Ria," hiccups Talin, "she's been in my dreams. Tharn had me thrown in the dungeons and she came to me. She told me what I had to do."  
  


"And what's that?"  
  


"I need to go to a place name of Fang Lair. Built by dwarves, Ria reckons."  
  


"'Fang Lair'? Is that in Cyrodiil?"  
  


". . .I don't know," Talin admits.  
  


"You don't. . ." She's starting to have a pounding headache. "You don't think. . .Ria. . .was just that? A dream?"  
  


"She was in  _ front _ of me. A ghost. She showed me where to find the prison key," says Talin hotly. "She told me how to get out of the city. I'd be dead, too, if she hadn't."  
  


"Did she tell you how to find your way here?" asks Gemile, half as a jab.  
  


"Yes! She described it—she said things like to watch out if I take a cart, because there's a massive hole in the way two-thirds between Cheydinhal and this place, and there was! How would I have ever known that?"  
  


"I'm going to fetch my mother."  
  


"No!" Talin catches her hand with surprising strength—or, maybe not all that surprising, given his size. "She can't know."  
  


"This is insane, Talin. Someone needs to hear. My mother's a mage, she—"  
  


"If you want to keep her safe," Talin reiterates, "you can't tell her."  
  


"Fulvius Talin Velvassius. Are you making a threat against me?"  
  


"Gem," protests J'hani.  
  


_ "Think," _ urges Talin, his white face finally regaining some life. "It won't be long until Tharn sends his cronies after me—that's if he hasn't already—and he will not  _ hesitate _ to kill anyone he thinks might know about his betrayal! If you tell anyone, you're going to make yourself and your family his target."  
  


"Well, Talin, you showed up out of the blue, badly injured, on my wedding day. I think she's fucking well going to want some sort of explanation." Feeling faint, Gemile sits down again and starts to cry.  
  


"Your wedding?" Talin repeats, almost his sheepish fifteen-year-old self again.  
  


"I don't know what I expected," Gemile says to herself. For one short moment her whole family is pleased with her and with each other, and everything's gone right—and now this.  
  


"Who's the g—who are you marrying?"   
  


"Me," says J'hani, smiling at the thought, despite everything.  
  


"Oh." Talin looks between them, crestfallen. "Congratulations."  
  


"Talin," says Gemile very slowly, pausing to calm her breathing, "if you saw Ria, in your dreams. What's to stop her from coming to me?"  
  


Talin frowns, his heavy black brows nearly touching, and he moves to wipe his face again. J'hani presses another bit of cotton into his hand. "She. . .is. . .bound, to her—her—what's left of her. Tharn k—she was around the corner from my cell. That's how she appeared in front of me." He touches his fingertips to his forehead. "She did something that let her come into my dreams. But she said she wasn't going to do it again—it—took too much out of her. She's resisting death."  
  


Gemile shakes her head—or, her head shakes. As she struggles to her feet, it continues to shake. "Come with us. There's food—you can eat something, and my mother could take a look at your arm."  
  


Talin looks up at her, seeming to take heart. "Are—"  
  


"Yes, I'm sure. J'hani, will you show him there? I'll talk to my parents." She stoops and bunches up the red sari and the jewelry in her arms.   
  


"All right," says J'hani, helping Talin up.  
  


_ "Cor." _ Gemile fastens a fallen orange blossom in her hair.  
  


"Yes?"  
  


"You can't go out in your undershirt."  
  


"Oh—no," replies J'hani, swiping at the bloodstains with the back of his hand, "I can't, can I?"  
  


"I'll see the two of you later," says Gemile, descending the steps. She traipses back toward the lights and sounds of the wedding.  
  


Nadinandriah accosts her the moment she's within view of the field, her black eyes glittering like polished gems. "Congratulations, sister! It was a beautiful ceremony! Did you like the clothes Tati and I chose for everyone?"  
  


"No one else could have done it better," Gemile finds herself bubbling. It's hard not to be affected by Nadinandriah's natural cheer.   
  


"I'm so glad! I was proud myself, but I—oh, are you feeling all right, though, Gemile? You look—"  _ Like you've been snivelling, _ she's too kind to say. "Can I get you anything? Water? Something to eat?"  
  


"Tired," says Gemile, which is true. "Have you seen my mother?"  
  


"Oh, I think she might be inside the house. Making coffee."  
  


"Thank you. I'll. . .are you staying the night?"  
  


"Ah, I never get the impression that—well, I wasn't planning to, but Tati asked me the same thing. Besides, I can't refuse a request from the freshly-minted bride!"  
  


Gemile grins halfheartedly, and totters away toward the house, any further clever remark escaping her. It'll be fine. Everything will be fine. She just needs to find Mama.  
  


"You had really ought to be outside attending to your guests, Gemile," Mama chastises as soon as she steps into the living room.  
  


"Mama—"  
  


"Tears of joy, I should hope, my daughter. Give that to me." Mama holds her hands out for the sari.  
  


"Mama, someone—one of my friends from the Imperial City is here. He was outside Cheydinhal and got—got—bandits," she manages. "His name's Talin, he—er—he's Jakob Wolf-Mouth's son."  
  


"One of your father's many associates."  
  


"Yeah. He's badly off, his face is cut up and his arm is broken—can you see to him?"  
  


Mama sighs. "Fixing a limb,  _ carissima, _ is draining. I will be dead to the world." Gemile winces. Mama raises an eyebrow and goes on. "Is something more going on, Gemile? That this person should show himself at your wedding, battered half to Oblivion—whatever makes you  _ frown _ so?"  
  


Gemile drops next to her on the sofa and buries her face in Mama's scarf. Mama tuts and mutters something about kajal on her good sari, but pulls her close all the same as she sobs.  


"Tell this Talin to come and find me after the reception," she says gently. "It's not much then if I should be exhausted."  
  


"I th-think I'm going to invite him home with us."  
  


"Oh, Gemile." Mama fixes Gemile's ornate plait and lays it meticulously over her shoulder. "On your wedding night?"  
  


"It doesn't  _ matter. _ He's  _ hurt. _ " Gemile draws a breath. "Ria Silmane—she's been—in an accident. She's passed."  
  


"Ah," says Mama, finally understanding. "Had Arkay's hand stayed all of this misfortune until tomorrow."  
  


"My friend is dead, and you're upset that the party is ruined."  
  


Mama's eyes widen. "I am thinking of you, my own."  
  


"Well. . ." Gemile stands. "I'll bring Talin here after everyone's finished. 'Bye, Mama."  
  


Rather than go straight outside, though, she skims the bedroom wing and picks through Valens' dresser for the baggiest shirt and dhoti she can find, both a faded, nondescript blue.  
  


Talin is easy to spot—by far the tallest and palest one in a sea of brown faces and short, reedy bodies. Not to mention he's raiding the tables as if he'll never eat again. "I brought you some clothes," she says. "My mother's going to take a fit if you walk in looking like that."  
  


"I can't," says Talin, with his mouth full. "I can't move my arm."  
  


So she sees. He's holding it to his side as a small bird might hold its broken wing. Her great-grandfather Amir broke his arm badly as a little boy; in his last years, it was a shriveled little thing, crossed with dark veins, for which a glass of water would have been too great a burden. "If I get J'hani to help you, d'you think you could manage?"  
  


Talin gives her an uncomfortable, one-shouldered shrug. "I-I've bothered him enough tonight. Can you come with me?"  
  


"—I suppose," says Gemile, thinking that she's been bothered a fair fucking amount for her own part. "That doesn't, er, worry your modesty?"  
  


"I'm not sweet on you, you know." He takes a wolflike bite out of a slice of pound cake. "Silya said those things because she thought it was funny."  
  


"I'm still a g—a married woman, at that!"  
  


"I'm not going to make you," says Talin.  
  


She folds her hands, trying to think. "Your arm—doesn't it hurt?"  
  


"Now that I'm not starving, yeah. But what am I going to do, cry?"  
  


"You know what—" A thousand things run through her mind. Ask Lavinia? She's more disposed to breaking things than putting them back. Pelivatius Tragillius is a physician—but—mustn't Errandil know something about healing? How can she approach anyone in the middle of her own fucking wedding reception?   
  


"Gemile, my girl—" calls Papa, leading a large, fine-featured wood elf woman, ostensibly to introduce her, but he stops short when he catches sight of Talin. He excuses himself to the elven woman and comes nearer, his expression dark.  
  


"Papa," she says, before he's had a chance to speak. "Jakob Wolf-Mouth's son."  
  


"Truly?" Papa holds out his hand. "We. . .weren't expecting you."  
  


"Arm's broke, sir. Shake the other one, though."  
  


"Ah—don't trouble yourself," says Papa, very quickly, when his eye falls on Talin's begrimed hand. "You're in a  _ state, _ my boy, if you don't mind my saying so."  
  


"Talin was on his way to Cheydinhal—but he was accosted by bandits," Gemile answers for him.  
  


"Ah, yes," says Papa, glancing meaningfully in her direction. "The Blue Road can be treacherous that way, eh, Gemile?"  
  


"I—"  
  


"Be that as it may," Papa barrels on, "you picked a very inopportune moment to try our hospitality, Talin. You had no means of defending yourself? I  _ cannot _ see Jakob Wolf-Mouth ever sending his son out without—"  
  


_ "Papa," _ hisses Gemile.  
  


". . .I suppose you had better come into the house, Talin."  
  


"Mama won't do anything until after the party," Gemile clarifies. To Talin she adds: "Take these with you," pushing the clean shirt and trousers into his good hand.  
  


"Well—send that priest after us, then, Gemile. Strikes me as the least likely to cause trouble about it.  _ Afterward, _ my daughter, enjoy yourself and speak with your guests. Of all the rotten luck—come along, then!" Papa tells Talin, who lumbers after him.  
  


She finds Errandil at a table with Do'vasha and Ajirra, chatting animatedly in Ta'agra. They're sitting beneath a paper lantern, and the instant she draws near enough for its light to touch her, Ajirra goes quiet.  _ "Are you all right?" _ she asks in the slow, neutral Ta'agra she reserves for Gemile.  
  


_ "Jat. _ Well—no. Errandil?" she gabbles.  
  


"At your service," says Errandil pleasantly.  
  


"I, er—we've had an. . .unexpected guest—he's—can you heal at all?"  
  


"When necessary," muses Errandil, standing. "What is the damage?"  
  


"My friend Talin rocked up with a broken leg. Er, arm. Oh, listen to me. He's inside the house with my parents—my mother thinks it, it might be too much for her, I—"  
  


"Say no more," he begs, and briefly touches her shoulder before making for the house. Gemile sinks into his seat, the headache having returned worse than ever.  
  


_ "Do you need anything?" _ asks Ajirra.  
  


_ "Water. Where's J'hani?"  
  
_

_ "Here," _ says J'hani, taking the seat next to her. Ajirra leaves for the drinks table.  _ "Tonight has been khadoki, hasn't it?"  
  
_

"Don't know that one," murmurs Gemile, laying her head on her arms.  
  


_ "Khadoki?"  
  
_

"Mm."  
  


J'hani straightens the remaining blossom in her hair. "'Eventful', I think, is a good way to translate it."  
  


". . .This is all we're going to remember in twenty years. This mess. The blood. Ria—"  
  


_ "So who was the big Nord boy?" _ asks Ajirra, with a  _ clink _ indicating she's set down the water.  
  


As J'hani explains, Gemile tries to tune out everything—the coloured lights in the edges of her vision, her  _ splitting _ headache, the cold of her bangles digging into her forehead, Ria Ria Ria Ria Ria—everything but the sound of his voice. She comes close, eventually, to calm.  
  


No guests approach their table; even Papa's merchant friends aren't curt enough to ignore her ruined kajal, stained scarf and bloodshot eyes when offering their rehearsed congratulations. Here and there, people start to leave.  
  


"Gem," says Martina, coming up behind her, "dance with me. And then, gods, let's get some wine in you. D'you mind?" she asks J'hani, as an afterthought.   
  


"Oh—no," says J'hani, glancing at Gemile.  
  


"I'm all right," she confirms. "Let's dance, then."  
  


Martina all but pulls her from her seat, walks them out onto the cool grass, and motions for the clustered musicians on their raised stage to pick up the pace. The four of them stop and squabble for a moment, and then play something different entirely, with a high, wailing shehnai strain and a drum like a frantic heartbeat.   
  


"Aren't you just blowing through a lifetime's worth of shit luck." Martina walks them into a tight, rhythmic circle, shimmying her shoulders—jutting out her hip on the off beat.  
  


"Oh, don't say that," sighs Gemile. "Bet you just conjured more of it."  
  


"Ha! Luckily I couldn't cast a spell to save my life. Oi! Watch your feet!"  
  


"Watch  _ yours, _ at that bloody pace!"  
  


"Are you going to tell them to slow down? The bride, dancing at last?"  
  


"No! Just—stop showing off," Gemile laughs, breathlessly. "There—"  
  


"Arms  _ up _ , Gem." Martina claps along with the pattering drum. "One, two,  _ three, four! _ "  
  


"How—how are you still so good at this? Big dancers, are they, in Summerset?"  
  


"Yes, actually," says Martina seriously. "Not like this, but yes."  
  


"What's her name?"  
  


Martina sighs—or gasps for breath, maybe; she's beginning to sweat, too. "Helith."  
  


"That's pretty," manages Gemile, and then they're both beyond speaking, focusing instead on their slapdash dance.  
  


At last, the musicians finish and return to the calmer, atmospheric tune they were playing before. Gemile stretches her arms, following after Martina's long strides to the drinks table. "I feel better," she says, half to herself.  
  


"Good." Martina winks and holds out a pewter goblet to her.  
  


Gemile wrinkles her nose. "It's not that fucking Surilie port, is it?"  
  


"Worse. Colovian brandy."  
  


"Lovely. I'm not drinking it."  
  


"Oh, go on, just this little piddling bit. Pinch your nose."  
  


Gemile sighs, tips her head back and empties the cup, which is significantly fuller than one sip's worth—but she expected as much from Martina. Almost immediately, the burning heat of it in her throat makes her face flush.  
  


"Now d'you know who else will want a dance?"  
  


"I reckon I do," grins Gemile, returning to J'hani's table. "Will you dance with me?" she asks him. "I think it's about time."  
  


"I—would love to, Gemile, but I—I haven't. . ." J'hani rises from his seat and faces her. "I haven't danced in  _ years. _ Not that I was ever very good at it. . ."  
  


"We'll do an easy one." Gemile crosses her arms for a moment, racking her brain for the simplest dance she knows. "I've got one. Come with me." To Ajirra and Do'vasha she says,  _ "I'm going to borrow J'hani, if that's all right."  
  
_

_ "Have fun," _ says Ajirra, warmly.  
  


Do'vasha's response is too quick for her, but J'hani snorts. "'Borrow?' he said. He didn't come all this way just to have to take me back later."  
  


_ "That will not be a problem," _ Gemile tells him, smiling, though not quite sure if she's used the right verb tense.  
  


_ "Jaji," _ J'hani corrects her as they walk out onto the grass. "You said  _ jajo. _ "  
  


Ah. "Always the same mistake."  
  


"A small one, Gem. You are a wonder to have learned so much so quickly."  
  


Gemile embraces him, suddenly boundless in her joy, for the simple reason that J'hani is here, with her. "I love you," she says, and can't seem to stop herself, "I love you, I love you."  
  


" _ Ari jer. _ My wife."  
  


"We're still going to dance," Gemile reminds him, feeling her face flame. She addresses the musicians, who only seem to speak Old Cyrodilic.  _ "Suffer a bit of an odd request from the bride, sir?"  
  
_

_ "Yes," _ says the singer in his broad, weighty voice.  _ "That's why we're here."  
  
_

_ "Congratulations," _ adds the sitar player.  _ "That Arkay bless you and keep you all your many years."  
  
_

_ "Thank you," _ says Gemile impatiently.  _ "Can you do something slow, with a bit of a. . . _ one _ two three,  _ one _ two three?"  
  
_

_ "One of those High Rock marches?" _ asks the sitar player, raising her eyebrows.  _ "That's not really what we do."  
  
_

_ "Make an exception. Just for a few minutes?"  
  
_

The singer shrugs and leads the others into a rhythm of threes, retiring from his singing in order to keep time.  
  


"A waltz?" J'hani questions her.  
  


"Farrun four-step, we call it in the Niben. It really is just the same four steps, and you draw a square as you go."  
  


"Oh. I can. . .I can do that."  
  


"I know. Put your hand on my waist, and—yeah, perfect."  
  


J'hani frowns. "And—I'm to lead with this foot?"  
  


"Other one. Then I step  _ back, _ " she narrates, doing so, "and there's one step of four."  
  


Together they muddle their way through the remaining steps, falling slowly into a comfortable rhythm.   
  


"I'm glad that we got the chance to dance after all," says J'hani after a while.  
  


"Mm." She buries her face in his chest, breathing in the smell of sandalwood and ghee. "My husband."  
  


The question of Talin starts to drum in the back of her mind, but she pushes it away at least for a few minutes.  
  


Finally the musicians end the song, with a low, lingering note from the shehnai, and it's time. "Can we take Talin with us tonight?"  
  


"Back—you don't mean—back—to?"  
  


"I'm worried," says Gemile.  
  


"Gem, he's being seen to."  
  


"It's not just that. All the talk about Tharn and R—about a conspiracy, I. . .either it's  _ true, _ or he's lost his  _ mind, _ and—and—either way, we can't very well just send him on his happy way."  
  


J'hani sighs and cups her cheek with his hand. "He couldn't just. . .stay here for the night? Gemile," he adds, imploring, "you don't think we deserve a few hours of peace?"  
  


"If he's right. If he's right, and there are people after him, I—I don't want them coming to find him in Gold Leaf."  
  


"Ah. Well, you are very optimistic to think that we can fend off these attackers better than two mages and a Legion r—"  
  


_ "What," _ she spits, interrupting him, "is the  _ matter _ with you?"  
  


"You know, I think it may be sensible to 'send him on his happy way'."  
  


"Are you  _ joking? _ "  
  


"Well," suggests J'hani, more coldly than she's ever heard him, "shall we run through our options again? One. We leave him with your family, and, on the chance that he's telling the truth, risk drawing assassins to Gold Leaf Moor. Two. We take him to Cheydinhal, and risk drawing assassins there. Or three, we ask him to leave. If Tharn is sending people, they will be harder pressed to follow a target who is moving."  
  


"And what about the staff or whatever bloody thing he's after? If the Emperor really has been replaced, you don't think we'd ought to help him fix that?"  
  


"Why?" asks J'hani simply.  
  


Gemile stops in her tracks.  
  


"What is it to us who is on the throne, or how he got there?" he continues. "If he is truly after power, he will try and make war on the other provinces, but what else is new?"  
  


"But Talin will be hurt! And we can't know Tharn is even after him yet, can we?"  
  


"Even if he has been struck mad, and he's making it all up, he belongs with the Temple, not here."  
  


"This isn't like you," says Gemile lamely. "Aren't you always the first one to offer help?"  
  


"Within  _ reason, _ yes! What good is it risking our lives for the sake of the Emperor? Of all people?" J'hani's eyes flash. "Or have you changed your opinion?"  
  


"You're being so horrid," she blubbers, and throws off his hands, already in tears. She's so sick of crying today. Her head hurts. She goes inside the house.  
  


Mama and Errandil are on the sofa, chatting quietly. Papa is reading the news billet; Lavinia is dozing into his shoulder.  
  


"How are you?" asks Mama, half-smiling. She goes on without waiting for an answer. "Your friend is in your old room."  
  


Gemile nods and goes on. Strange to knock on her own door, but she does it anyway. "'S open," comes the reply.  
  


"Hi," she says, in a small voice, stepping inside. Talin is laid out on the bed, looking as though he's finally had a wash and a change of clothes. His face is bandaged soundly. The trousers only come about halfway down his shins, and his shirtsleeves just past the elbow, but all the same.   
  


"You, uh. . ."  
  


"It's nothing. I had a row." Gemile breathes out slowly and starts to undo her plait. "How are you?"  
  


"Much better. Look." He flaps his arm about to demonstrate how well it's healed. "Better job than I'd've done myself."  
  


"Good," she croaks, and clears her throat. "Good."  
  


"Yeah."  
  


"So what are you going to do, after tonight?"   
  


“Well.” Talin blusters. "Find that Fang Lair, I reckon?"  
  


"Are you really going to travel all the provinces by yourself? Have you got any money? Or a sword?"  
  


"I have—" He pats himself down and sighs. "— _ had _ a beltknife."  
  


"If you do this," remarks Gemile, "it's going to be the death of you."  
  


"'Given the outcome of certain death, die with a blade in hand.' My armsmaster always said that to us. Dead now, too, obviously."  
  


"You haven't  _ got _ a blade!"  
  


"Details. Plus," Talin adds, sitting upright, "he killed Ria. He killed Silya. He dies for that."  
  


Silya. "Who else?"  
  


"Well, some are—"  
  


"Who  _ else? _ " Her hand flies to her mouth. "Martinus?"  
  


"I don't know. Never let us see him after you left, the Emperor."  
  


"Gods."  
  


"Who else?" His voice wavers. "The Blade Captain. Most of the servants, 'specially those without families—no bother replacing them. My f—my father."  
  


"I'm sorry." She sits on the bed next to him and puts her arms around him. Tall as he is, he crumples into her side.  
  


"Will you stay with my family tonight?" she asks.  
  


"No," he says thickly, "I think I have to keep moving. Better for everyone that way."  
  


"Come with J'hani and me to our house in Cheydinhal, then."  
  


Talin shakes his head listlessly. "I don't want you to get hurt."  
  


"We'll survive one night. Besides, we'll be able to get you some sundries, if you really are going on this fool trip."  
  


"OK," he says, past the point of arguing. "When do you leave?"  
  


"I was thinking we might go right now, actually. Before it gets too late."  
  


"OK," repeats Talin, rising.  
  


She walks him outside, bidding Mama and everyone goodbye as they go. They come to the garden, a waste, now, of empty tables and lanterns. The only one still outside is J'hani, watching them with folded arms.  
  


"We're ready to leave if you are," Gemile tells him, hard-faced, thinking nothing except _ just try. Just try and say something.  
  
_

He gives Talin a long look, ignoring her entirely. "I'll go and get our things."  
  


"Big place, your house in Cheydinhal?" Talin asks, lightly. "Got a spare bedroom?"  
  


Gemile digs her nails into her palm.  
  


"No," says J'hani crisply, "we do not."

* * *

There are plenty of things to do around the house if she looks for them. Quiet things: dusting the storefront. Polishing the windows. Although there's no telling a clean window from a filthy one in low enough light.  
  


Creaky stairs, she thinks, as J'hani's soft footsteps sound in the stairwell. She should find someone to look at those.  
  


"Will you come to bed, Gemile?" he asks, coming up behind her.  
  


"No," she says. "I'm busy."  
  


"What is keeping you so frightfully busy at half three in the morning?"  
  


"I can't sleep," she says, gentling. "I k—I just can't sleep."  
  


". . .Gemile, I said a vile thing to you earlier. I—"  
  


"Oh, save it," she snips. "That's not why I'm up."  
  


"Please." He touches her arm gingerly, like he's expecting to be clawed at. "I don't want us to fight."  
  


"I  _ don't _ —I'm tired," she amends, making herself breathe deeply. "I'm just. . .tired."  
  


"Then come to bed!"  
  


"I can't sleep," she repeats.  
  


"Look at me," J'hani tells her, in a soft voice, as he takes her hands. "Please, Gem."  
  


When she tries to adjust her gaze, Gemile startles. She's been staring out of the dim window on the far end of the room with flinty, unseeing eyes. J'hani's eyes, compared to that empty black window, seem impossibly clear—bright as torches. "I'm looking."  
  


He reaches out and smooths her hair. "Please speak to me."  
  


"I am. I'm tired. I've just had horrible news. I don't know what you want from me."  
  


J'hani says nothing; he starts to ease his thumbs back and forth across the backs of her hands.  
  


"I want a coffee I think more than I've ever wanted one but I can't fucking well boil the water or I'll wake Talin and he so deserves his rest," she takes a deep, shuddering breath, "and I don't want to sleep because I'm afraid Ria will show up and I'm just as afraid she  _ won't _ and I keep seeing Tinus—" and her breath is gone, and her legs won't hold her. J'hani places her in the wicker kitchen chair and crouches beside her. They might have sat on the sofa, she reflects, if they hadn't brought it upstairs for a bed.  
  


"Talin said," she goes on, because if she stops talking now she might well become a howling mess, "that no one's seen Martinus at the palace in years, and if Tharn  _ knows _ —he'd be an idiot to let him—to let him. . ." She takes a breath in, a low, reverse wail in the quiet dark. "A four-year-old! Or younger—he could have arranged something ages ago. You know it's hard enough to stop children from accidentally killing them _ selves, _ let alone—" She brings her finger to her temple and traces a continuous circle. "I keep seeing the same thing, I keep seeing him fall out of a high window. I don't know why that. Just sitting there, and then gone—and—"  
  


"Come here," whispers J'hani, and she manages to stand, and he holds her for a very long while. Then he goes to the furnace.  
  


"What are you doing?" sniffles Gemile.  
  


"Making coffee."  
  


"You'll wake Talin."  
  


"If we have not woken him yet, we won't wake him now. It's almost sunrise, in any case."  
  


Gemile nods.   
  


J'hani stops and fiddles with something on his wrist—eventually he produces the sea-silken handkerchief, and holds it out to her.  
  


"Thank you," she says, managing a smile. "When'd you put that back on?"  
  


"Earlier. I like to have it." He turns back to the furnace. "Do you want to talk about Tinus? Or shall we leave it?"  
  


"Are you thinking of something?"  
  


"Yes," he says shortly.  
  


"Tell me, then."  
  


". . .I was thinking of Uriel's vow to raise him as a son. Talin's story doesn't need to conflict with that—the princes are kept from us anyway—but I wonder, then, what's happened to the rest of Uriel's sons."  
  


"And Caula," Gemile bursts out. "He didn't mention her at all."  
  


"I don't think he could have. . .killed everyone inside the palace."  
  


"Why not? If he could replace them—"  
  


"But he cannot replace their knowledge. Ria—" He hesitates. "She was Tharn's apprentice, wasn't she? Tharn would have known everything she knew. About magic as well as the palace."  
  


Gemile breathes in, and lets out a long sigh. "I think I will go to sleep, actually."  
  


"I think you're right, but—" J'hani indicates the coffee.  
  


"We can make it, sleep and then save it for the morning. Talin will know a flame charm or something—"  
  


"All right, Gem."  
  


"—I—will you wake me if I have a nightmare?"  
  


"I will."  


"I love you," she says, breaking the short silence. "And I'm sorry about today."  
  


"Me, too."


	37. 3E 389, Sun's Dusk 7

Gemile marvels as Talin clears his third plate in a matter of seconds. At first she’d thought he was starving, but he's been eating well for days now. Still—he inhales his food.  
  


"'d like some meat," he says, managing to keep a startling amount of rice from spraying across the table.  
  


"You chose the wrong day to join us, then," Mama tells him through pursed lips.  
  


"The food is lovely, Mama." As Gemile speaks, she elbows Talin under the table. "Talin's too busy eating to say so."  
  


"It is excellent, Madam Caridenius," contributes J'hani politely.  
  


Mama smiles, a little. "Livia."  
  


"You've outdone yourself, Ma." Martina wiggles her fingers in Gem's direction; her cue to pass another slice of naan.  
  


"'Ma'?" Tatianus frowns at her.  
  


"I like 'Ma'! It's what my nephews at home call their mother," Nadinandriah offers.  
  


"All the same," says Mama, her eyes twinkling, "I do not find myself in need of any new monikers."  
  


"Oh, no, no, of course not! I didn't at all mean to suggest—"  
  


"Nadi, it's all right," Tatianus hushes her.  
  


Nadinandriah flushes—but she catches Gemile's eye across the table and quickly cheers. "I love your sari, Gemile! Orange is beautiful on you."  
  


"Thank you," Gemile grins back. "I think I've worn them in every colour under the sun now."  
  


"Blue," Lavinia points out. "And purple."  
  


"She doesn't dare, Vin," Martina declares. "No one can compete with you in blue."  
  


"'Vin'?" snickers Valens. Lavinia thumps him, and he's about to retaliate but that a sharp  _ 'Valens Marcianus' _ from Papa freezes him mid-swing.  
  


Lavinia sticks her tongue out at him.  
  


" _ She _ hit  _ me! _ " cries Valens, shooting Papa a wounded look.  
  


"You do it on purpose," says Lavinia evenly. "You always laugh at me and you know I'm going to hit you and then you act surprised when I do it, because you’re an idiot."  
  


"Will you both stop it," hisses Tatianus.   
  


Gemile feels a twinge of sympathy for Nadinandriah, who isn't used to any of this, and smiles briefly at her. "Lavinia, you'll stop being so vicious," she says, and turns her eye on Valens, " _ but _ —don't  _ try _ and upset her."  
  


Both of them sit and glare daggers at her, but no one storms off: a win.  
  


"Papa," she says, after the plates are cleared and everyone's gone to sit in the courtyard.  
  


"Gemile," says Papa.  
  


"Do you think. . .er, d-do you think there's any chance you could get that dagger back from the Count? As—as a wedding present, I mean, it's a lovely ornament. . ." It's also the only thing Talin has left of his father's, and might keep him alive better than iron.  
  


"My daughter, you are asking for a very, very dear wedding present."  
  


She sighs. "It was Talin's. Do you remember? He lent it me. I'd like to give it him back."  
  


"A shame, Gemile, but what shall I do? Pay a ransom for the damned thing? I cannot harm my reputation with the Count further."  
  


"Further?"  
  


Papa clears his throat. "I mean to say that now is not the time for any grand manoeuvres."  
  


"Then I think," she replies, straightening her shoulders, "that you owe him a replacement."  
  


"Where is this coming from, then? Has he asked for it?"  
  


"It was Jakob Wolf-Mouth's."  
  


"And his son passed it to you. I can hardly help that, can I?"  
  


"I want to buy him a new blade, so that he doesn't. . .so that nothing happens on the Blue Road." She holds her breath.  
  


"Ah," says Papa. "I don't suppose I can fault you for that—having had the experience you had. . ."  
  


"She stuck a sword through my foot, you know. Some bandit woman. People found me, but. . ." She doesn't have to fake the stab of terror that comes with the memory, or the tears that start to well in her eyes. "I only lived because I had Talin's blade. And now I can't return the favour."  
  


"Gemile."  
  


"Sorry," she says, wiping her nose with a bare arm.   
  


"I'll send you to an acquaintance of mine. . .she deals in weaponry. Horrible, cantankerous woman, I'm afraid, but I'll tell her that you can pick out something, and she can stick me with the bill."  
  


"Can it be today?" blurts Gemile.  
  


He frowns. "You know, I think this was a very fine piece of generosity on my part, but you continue to raise your price.  _ Today, _ Gemile, your mother and I are to see you off to married life for good."  
  


"Can't you write a letter? Can I bring a seal? A ring? Something?"  
  


"Gemile—"  
  


"This is important to me. And. . ." Hells. She can't tell him Wolf-Mouth is dead—or  _ missing _ —he'll investigate. "I love Talin like a brother, but. . .J'hani," she begins, gritting her teeth, and immediately backpedals, "—well, no, that's not fair. Neither of us really got to enjoy our own wedding, we were so busy fretting over him, and—it's back to work on the 9th and—I would so love—so much as a day—"  
  


"You want him out of your hair," says Papa, smiling wryly.   
  


"I want to be able to send him off without worrying that he's going to get into trouble again,” she corrects him. “That's perfectly reasonable."  
  


"There's no waiting until you can next take time off?"  
  


"I really, really don't want it to come to that,” she mumbles.  
  


Papa shakes his head. "Funny, if you ask me, that you should both be so put out over a single unexpected guest."  
  


"You saw the state of him! I was worried out of my—!"  
  


"Yes, yes. You are still a girl, much as you like to keep a stiff upper lip. And I suppose that husband of yours is. . .a sensitive soul. Eh?"  
  


"If you're not going to be any help," Gemile fumes, "I'll just go out and take the little time I  _ have _ —"  
  


"All right. Don't pout." Papa relents. "I never wore a signet after what happened to your grandfather, so I suppose I'll write you a little note from home."  
  


"Thank you."  
  


"Mm-hm,” he says, glancing about the room for a clean page. “Aline Clément is the she-Sload's name. She should know my seal."

* * *

"Are you still upset with me?" asks Gemile, under her breath, as they watch Talin swing a gleaming longsword.  
  


"No," says J'hani, in clipped tones, "but we keep digging ourselves in deeper with your family, don't we?"  
  


"I don't see anything wrong with testing my father's generosity a bit, considering he's the reason I can't just give him," she nods at Talin, "his own blade back. In any case, if he really didn't want to pay for the thing, I would never have been able to talk him into it. Simple as that."  
  


"I just think it's better to be able to handle our own affairs, that's all."  
  


"Oh, 'our own affairs',” Gemile scoffs. “It's a wedding present."  
  


"That one," Clément is saying, "is red steel from Vvardenfell. Nothing better for the price."  
  


"What price?" asks Talin, looking fondly down the length of the sword.  
  


"Two thousand and five hundred."  
  


"Say we raise it to four thousand?" Gemile suggests. J'hani sighs.  
  


Smiling expectantly, Clément leaves the counter and takes a transparent kris with a flamed blade that winds from side to side like a hill-path.   
  


"Crystal glass," says Clément, "worked by a smith friend of mine in Alinor."  
  


She hands the dagger to Talin, who takes it, looking bemused.  
  


"How are you ever meant to sharpen it?" he asks.  
  


"No need. It is enchanted never to lose its edge, or to shatter."  
  


"And, er, the. . .wiggles?"  
  


"Cuts deeper,” says Clément. “Throws off any opponent whose blade clashes with yours."  
  


"Hm." He gives the kris a few test swings. "Solid. Good, I guess."  
  


"Is that the one, then?" Gemile asks him.  
  


"Hmm." Talin turns back to Clément. "Do you have a dummy outside?"  
  


"I do. But you are going to destroy it with that, so I will ask fifty septims' compensation, whether you buy the blade or not."  
  


"That's fine," says Gemile.  
  


Destroy it he does: one good slash across the dummy's chest and it splits open, bleeding straw, the bottom two-thirds of its body falling away. There's even a gouge in the wood behind it. Gemile's stomach turns.  
  


"That felt weird, in my arm," Talin tells Clément, who crosses her scarred arms and smiles.  
  


She takes the sword from him and neatly slices off the head of the dummy. "Vibrations," she confirms, "from the flamed blade. Get used to them."  
  


"Does it come with a sheath?" he asks.  
  


"Yes."  
  


"OK, then."  
  


Back inside, Clément tallies their total. "Three thousand, nine hundred and fifty septims." To herself, she adds something snide in Bretonic. Gemile catches Papa's name.  
  


On the way back, Gemile also buys Talin a great leather pack, and at home, portions various dried foods into pouches (she runs out of containers after the third and has to start cutting cloth squares and tying them off), and digs up rolls of gauze and cotton, a pot of Mama's salve, and a few small potions.  
  


"D'you remember where you're going?" she quizzes him as they work.  
  


"Great Library in Skingrad, to find out about Fang Lair. Then to the port in Anvil. Gemile, I was thinking."  
  


"Good on you," she says, testing a pouch of dried beans for leaks.   
  


"I mean, should I take a different name? In case I meet someone who's working for Tharn?"  
  


"That seems a bit . . .no one's come and killed us yet, and it's been three days."  
  


"It can't  _ hurt, _ can it?"  
  


Gemile shrugs. "I suppose not."  
  


"Do you like Trygve?"  
  


"Trygve what?"  
  


"Hm.” He folds his arms. “Think of something."  
  


She pretends to huff. "Why me?"  
  


"I can't name my _ self. _ Someone else has to."  
  


"Oh, search me. Trygve. . .Swift-Arm," she tosses out.  
  


Talin sighs. "Guess that'll do."  
  


"Why don't you go and ask J'hani for a better one? He's good at these things."  
  


"Oh, er. OK."

* * *

"Promise you'll stay out of the Imperial City," Gemile says, as the carriage driver pulls up.   
  


"If I can help it," Talin shrugs.  
  


"I—" She bites her lip; all day, the urge to join him on his trip has been rising and subsiding. "Be safe. Ria is counting on you."  
  


"I'll come find you again when I finish with Tharn. Both of you," he says, nodding to J'hani.   
  


"Try and avoid dying," says J'hani, conceding a brief smile.  
  


Gemile swallows. "You don't—" She can't help it. "You don't think someone should come with you? You don't even know where you're going, and if—!"  
  


"And it's not going to help me stay alive if I bring someone who can't swing a sword. Odds are good that we'll both die."  
  


"I can use a knife. And—"   
  


"Wish me luck, Gemile," he says, and climbs into the carriage.


	38. 3E 390, Second Seed 21

The temple looks just like a smaller version of the palace. Or a bigger version of the Emperor's oratory. The same leaping ceiling, the same smooth stone walls—only the decor is primmer here. In fact, most of the priests are in simple robes of undyed fabric; grey or brown. Only the Archbishop of the One himself is an exception.  
  


Calaxes Septim is an imposing sight in deep red robes and a trailing fur cloak. He also happens to be at least a foot taller than she, and fully twice as broad.  
  


"Hello," he says.  
  


"Good—good afternoon," Gemile replies, dipping an awkward curtsey.  
  


"Don't, I beg you."  
  


"—oh. All right."  
  


"Would you come with me to my study, madam Caridenius?" He doesn't await a reply, instead turns on his heel, the great cloak hurrying after him.  
  


"Your Excellency," she says, though she bristles at 'madam'.  
  


"Calaxes," answers the Archbishop without breaking his stride.  
  


The study is no bigger or more ornate than Papa's study at home. Considering the Temple of the One is the largest and most well-funded in Cyrodiil, it seems terribly sparse. She keeps all of this to herself, of course, as she sits down in a plush chair opposite the desk.  
  


"How old are you, madam Caridenius?" asks Calaxes, sitting across from her, toying with one of the decorative plaits in his great red beard.  
  


Gemile blinks. "Begging your pardon?"  
  


"My exact words were: how old are you, madam Caridenius?"  
  


"Er, Gemile, then, if you please."  
  


"Fine. The question stands."  
  


"I. . .twenty-four this year, s—" and she cuts herself off halfway to 'sir'. "I'm twenty-four."  
  


"Ah," says Calaxes, leaning back in his chair, his green eyes twinkling. "I am twenty-five." He seems to catch her look of disbelief and smiles. "The beard and the paunch help to lend me a little maturity, I think."  
  


"Just as well, for an archbishop of Talos."  
  


Calaxes bursts out with a surprised laugh. "True! I suppose all Cyrodiil knows why I really got this post. . .but I can  _ try _ to give them a little reason to respect me, at any rate. My point!" he veers suddenly. "Don't you find that amusing in its way?"  
  


"What?"  
  


"You're the mother of my brother, and you're younger than me." His smile disappears into his beard, and he wrinkles his nose instead. "I suppose that's very telling indeed of my father's proclivities."  
  


". . .I suppose so," answers Gemile cautiously. Isn't Calaxes Septim meant to be Uriel's pet? Why else would he be where he is?  
  


"But enough. Are you wondering why I asked to see you?"  
  


"I—yes," she stammers, "I am at that. Mind you, I'm honoured and everything, but—"  
  


"Hm. Well: I thought I might be able to give you a few answers. I also hope you can answer some of my questions. And I was curious, after everything I've heard."  
  


"Heard? About me?"  
  


"I'm afraid my father enlisted one of his bastards to keep track of the other one. I have access to the spy network of the Blades." He studies her face for a moment. "Don't worry so much. You're not being watched at every moment. They just check in every now and again."  
  


Gemile raises her eyebrows. "Since _when?_ "  
  


"Since you left the palace."  
  


"Could I ask you to  _ stop? _ "  
  


"It's not in my hands," shrugs Calaxes. "I could ask to stop receiving reports, but I can't authorise them to stop investigating. In fact," he adds, steepling his fingers, "at the moment, no one can."  
  


"And what does that mean?" she asks.  
  


"I meant to congratulate you. I'm told you married one of the old palace staff last winter."  
  


"You had—"  
  


"One of the surviving palace staff, I should say."  
  


She winces. "With all due respect— _ Calaxes _ —if there’s something you’d—"  
  


"Are you close with Ria Silmane?"  
  


"Not as close since—since she was murdered by the Emperor's court mage," bites Gemile, feeling her last nerve snap. "Spit it out."  
  


"I see."  
  


"Wait," she says. "You aren't—?"  
  


"With Tharn? No, although it would be far too late for you if I was."  
  


"How can I be sure?"  
  


"You'll know in a few months when they find my corpse in some back street and all the news is that I, oh, started a brawl in a whorehouse, was stabbed by some inebriate with a shiv. . .or something as ignoble. Already the man who claims to be Uriel Septim has it out for the institution of the Nine in this city."  
  


Gemile considers. "Does he. . .know that you know?"  
  


"That's the fun of it all: I have not a single foolproof way to tell."  
  


"And—and the Blades? Whose side are they on?"  
  


"The Emperor's, of course. I know what I know because Tharn allows it. For example: I know that Martin is safe."  
  


"Martinus."  
  


"Not any more."  
  


Gemile thinks on that. "So he's. . .with Colovians, is he? Trust that bastard," she says, a little louder than she'd meant, and immediately shrinks into her chair. "Excuse me. I don't intend—"  
  


"No, I quite agree with you," says Calaxes, watching her with clear, impassioned eyes.  
  


"Do you know where?"  
  


Calaxes sighs and folds his arms on the desk. "There is a limit to what I can tell you."  
  


"Oh,  _ bull _ —"  
  


"But: you are well-connected, or if not, you will be. Am I wrong?"  
  


"I don't know what you mean," she says quietly.  
  


"If my guess is correct, you have—or will have, in time—all the resources you need to find my brother. The only question is this: when you  _ do _ find him, what next?"  
  


She laughs halfway. "What are you on about? I take him home!"  
  


"It's been. . .Gemile," says Calaxes, in his best attempt at a gentle voice, "it's been, what, a handful of years? Martin has grown. He must know what his mother looks like, and it's not—"  
  


"Thank you for your time, Your Excellency," says Gemile blandly, standing so quickly and forcefully she might have upended the desk. She's in the doorway when he takes her shoulder.  
  


"Thank you for yours," he says. "I ask a moment more."  
  


She looks up into his face, seeing him properly for the first time, and finds something familiar in his smug, imperious expression. Looking down at her. "Are you going to make me stay, then?" she asks.  
  


The illusion of Uriel breaks. Calaxes' pale eyes widen, and he takes a symbolic step backward with both his palms raised. "May Saint Alessia strike me down herself if I should try," he says.  
  


She watches the silver emblem around his neck sway back and forth, wishing that J'hani was with her. ". . . All right."  
  


"Thank you, Gemile." He drapes his great cloak over the back of his chair before sitting down again himself.   
  


"Does Tharn know, then? About Martinus?"  
  


"I'm inclined to think not. If he did, he would have handled that situation already. Although," he says, trailing off, "might be worth keeping around for the sake of the fires—but—he has Uriel for that. . ."  
  


"Sorry?"  
  


"Ah. The short answer is, I don't think so. I think if he did, Martin would be dead. He'd want to eliminate any eventual threat to his rule."  
  


"Well, aren't you a threat? He knows about you."  
  


"I fancy myself a little harder to kill, purely because the city knows me. And I intend to make a nuisance of myself for the foreseeable future, so if you suddenly hear that my mind has. . .changed, that I suddenly agree with my 'father' about restricting worship in the Imperial City. . .I will be dead."  
  


She clears her throat. "You're very flippant about the idea of. . .being murdered by a mad sorcerer, aren't you?"  
  


Calaxes shrugs a second time. "The end comes for us all. I'd prefer to live a few more years if possible, but I won't sulk if the gods have decided that I should die in their defence. Or that of my brother."  
  


"Have you ever so much as met him?" demands Gemile.  
  


"No."  
  


"Then what gives you the gall to be so bloody righteous?"  
  


"Nothing does," admits Calaxes. "But my father—"  
  


"I don't want to  _ hear _ about your father!” she snaps. “What has he got to do with you?"  
  


"Everything, unfortunately," replies Calaxes, flushing a bright, childish pink. "I will never be the Emperor. I can't fix all of his mistakes, and neither will that litter of gibbering lickspittles he takes for sons, but I might be able to fix this."  
  


"Aren't they your brothers, too?"  
  


"They are. . .if anything. . ."  
  


"And," she cuts in, "don't they care that their father has been—"  
  


"Gemile—they don't notice. Nothing has changed for them."  
  


"You haven't answered my question." Gemile crosses her arms. "Aren't they your brothers just as well as Martinus is?"  
  


"No."  
  


"Why?" She cocks her head. "I suppose you resent them?"  
  


Calaxes takes a deep breath. "If I was raised like they were, I would think—as later to reign—exactly like my father. So I should thank the Nine that I wasn't."  
  


"I think that's very funny," says Gemile hotly, "because if my son ever finds out who he really is, he'll have every right to resent  _ you. _ "  
  


"I—"  
  


"Why is it that you—a  _ bastard, _ mind—are the richest and most powerful man in Cyrodiil after Uriel himself, and Martinus—also a  _ bastard _ —had to be taken from me and left in some pigsty in Colovia? Why is that?"   
  


"Because Uriel loved my mother," says Calaxes, quite evenly, as though he's rehearsed the answer. "Her name was Magdalene of Gavaudon. He was promised to Caula Voria, but that didn't matter. He was going to run away to High Rock with Magdalene." A tiny spasm of a smile passes over his lips as he tucks his fiery hair behind his ear—a pointed ear. "She died, of course, but not before saddling him with me. Please rest assured," he adds, acidly, "I endured my share of mistreatment."  
  


"Oh."  
  


"And since my brother," he repeats, "is in a similar situation, I hope to spare him further mistreatment."  
  


"But you won't tell me where he is."  
  


"That's not the problem, as the fact remains. Your biggest problem is that—for better or worse—he has a  _ fami _ —"  
  


"Before I go," begins Gemile, rising again, "I have some news that—might give you a bit of hope. I know the man who's going to kill Tharn."  
  


"Oh?"  
  


"Maybe your Blades will tell you the rest," she says, and shrugs.   
  


"I see. Gods go with this man, for what it's worth.” Frowning deeply, Calaxes makes a gesture of blessing. "And with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> calaxes septim!! i wished i could have written more about him because i really like his dynamic with gemile - they go from an archbishop and a civilian to 2 bickering family members in half an hour flat. now that i think about it, i'm sure he would have felt right at home with the caridenii...


	39. 3E 391, Rain's Hand 30

Gemile cracks the kitchen window, hearing water drops clatter onto the cobblestone outside. She leans forward, shuts her eyes and breathes in the bright scent of the rain.  
  


"—et that?"  
  


"What?" she calls, leaning back.  
  


"The door, Gem!"  
  


"Oh!" Gemile scurries out into the front hall. She didn't hear a thing over the roaring rain, but then J'hani's ears are sharper than hers.   
  


Standing on her doorstep is Tatianus, his clothes drenched and his black hair glued to his forehead.  
  


". . .hi," she says faintly.  
  


"Hi," he grumps. "Will you  _ kindly _ let me in?"  
  


She steps aside. "I wasn't expecting you."  
  


"Valens is missing," says Tatianus, running a hand through his hair to try and squeeze out the water.  
  


"Oi! Not on my floor!" cries Gemile. "I'll—I'll go fetch a towel."  
  


"Gemile, I  _ said _ —"  
  


"I  _ heard _ you," she says, racing up the stairs, "and I'm still going to fetch a—" and she runs face-first into J'hani's chest as he comes down. "Ow. Hi."  
  


"Hi yourself," smiles J'hani, having taken her by the shoulders to steady her. "What do you need,  _ khunu'tu? _ "  
  


"A towel, but I'll do it. Tatianus is downstairs—will you light a fire?"  
  


"Of course," he says, and moves gently past her.  
  


"That's an impressive flame spell," Tatianus is saying as she comes back downstairs with their biggest towel.  
  


"Thank you," says J'hani. "Livia taught it to me."  
  


"Mama likes him better than me by now," grins Gemile. "Wine?"  
  


"No," says Tatianus, draping the towel around himself. "Oh, half a glass? But—" he catches her wrist before she can dander off to the kitchen, "you aren't listening to me, Gemile."  
  


She rolls her eyes. "I know what you said."  
  


"And you're not bothered?"  
  


"I'm just not worried."  
  


"Oh?" Tatianus crosses his legs. "Pray, tell."  
  


"Well, as of the 27th, he's of age."  
  


"For  _ what? _ "  
  


"You can't tell me," says Gemile, dandering off to the kitchen anyway, "that it hasn't occurred to you."  
  


"The  _ Legion? _ He'd have—he'd have—he'd have left a note! Or. . .nicked some clothes, at the very least!"  
  


"Why?" Gemile shrugs. "There's a post in Cheydinhal, all he'd need is carriage fare."  
  


"He'd have left a note!" Tatianus blusters again.  
  


"Have you ever known him to leave notes?"  
  


Tatianus stands and draws himself up to his full height. "And if you're wrong? If he's been taken—or—"  
  


"I'm not wrong. Sit down and drink your wine. Love!" she calls to J'hani, who has busied himself cleaning up in the kitchen. She shakes the bottle at him.  
  


"It is too early for me," says J'hani, and goes back to what he was doing—balancing a potted flower on the windowsill to catch a little rain. A blue bird with beady red eyes perches on the sill next to his hand. Ria Secunda. Gemile smiles.  
  


"You're chipper, aren't you?" Tatianus narrows his eyes at her. ". . .You already knew."  
  


"Yeah," she tells him, sitting down in the other armchair.  
  


"How? Since when?"  
  


"He was here last week, because we were going to be at work on his proper birthday, but I wanted to give him his gift. You know all that."  
  


"And he told you he was going to run off? And you did nothing whatsoever to stop him?"  
  


"Yes, he did—and no, I didn't. Listen," she says, quickly, before he can open his mouth again. "Valens' mind has been made up for years. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't have talked him out of it in one day."  
  


"You didn't so much as  _ try! _ " he flares.  
  


"It was more important that he was taken care of."  
  


"You gave him the money," mumbles Tatianus, letting his head fall against the back of the chair.  
  


She closes her eyes and prays to Arkay for patience. "Yes, I  _ did, _ or he'd have filched it from one of you anyway."  
  


"Of course. Why not just put the sword in his hand yourself and be done?"  
  


"This is exactly why he didn't tell you."  
  


"Oh, you're quite happy with yourself, are you?” he demands. “Let him go off and—what—slay people whom he's never  _ met _ , for the sake of a cause that has nothing to  _ do _ with him, and all glory to the Emperor, and all that, eh?"  
  


"Listen—” Gemile winds a lock of hair around her finger and tugs. “—you're right. I don't like it, all right, but short of locking him up in the house, what else did you think you were going to do?"  
  


"Talk  _ sense _ into him!" Tatianus bellows. "You can't really be this thick, Gem, can you?"  
  


Just in the corner of her vision, J'hani tenses.   
  


"You shouldn't be so bloody eager to place blame, you know,” she says.  
  


"What?"  
  


"Every time one of us does—did—we do something wrong, and you never want to—to help us, or comfort, or anything, only to lecture. And to prove how right you always are, and it doesn't help anyone. It doesn't help Valens, it didn't help me."  
  


All the air seems to go out of him. "—what?" he repeats.  
  


She glances at the rainwater in the hallway. It’s going to warp the wood. "You're exactly like Papa."  
  


Tatianus scoffs, cradling his head in his hand. "You never tire of saying that?"  
  


"Well, it's true."  
  


"Fine, I suppose.” He peers at her as though trying to parse a foreign language. “If you're right, if I'm as awful as you seem to think, then what more harm could I possibly do?"  
  


"You might do some good. You might make sure Lavinia finishes her studies properly before she goes off to live at the Mages' Guild."  
  


"So Valens is a lost cause, then." He shrugs and tosses an imaginary piece of rubbish over his shoulder, then dusts his hands. "Nothing more we can do but wait for the sealed letter from the Legate."  
  


"That's  _ not _ what I'm—"  
  


"You're a fine piece of work, do you know that? Talk down to me, as if I'm your brat of a son?"  
  


"Are you—?" Her voice catches, in spite of itself. " _ Still? _ You're  _ still _ —?"  
  


"OK! OK—OK—that. . .was a slip of the tongue," mutters Tatianus. "I'm sorry; I meant it as a hypothetical, but I—forget that—look. Gemile: I don't think you did the right thing, and Mama and Papa will agree with me."  
  


"I don't care."  
  


" _I_ can say that I _tried,_ _avicella_. All you'll ever do is flutter away at the first sign of trouble, and leave the mess for everyone else. Must have learned it from Tina."  
  


Gemile grits her teeth. "It’s not my fucking problem if you’re stuck in Gold Leaf because you're afraid of—I don't know—life, or your girlfriend, I don’t know what, but don’t put it on me."  
  


"I'm not afraid! I'm j—"  
  


"And then why— _ why _ do you never bitch at Martina about any of this? I can move away, too, if it'll  _ stop _ you—"  
  


Something changes in Tatianus, like the breaking of a fine thread, and he goes slack in his chair.  
  


"I did make him write you something, because I knew you'd get like this," says Gemile quietly, and goes upstairs, taking the folded note from the dresser. She unfolds it as she descends and holds it out to him, but he doesn't so much as look at it—only folds it up again and pockets it, suddenly looking very old.  
  


"I think I should leave," he says.  
  


"Take an umbrella."   
  


"I think I will."


	40. 3E 393, Sun's Dawn 1

Even more than the Nibenay Basin, the valley which cradles Leyawiin is blazing hot, humid and forested with endless dark trees. If you believe the stories—Gemile is quite sure she does—strange creatures wander the thickets here, in the southeastern tip of Cyrodiil.  
  


Clammy as they both are after an hours-long carriage ride, she's held at least one of J'hani's hands in hers all morning.  
  


"I think it's too early," he says, prompted by nothing in particular.  
  


"As soon as we get there," Gemile agrees, "I want a decent coffee."  
  


"I mean that it's too soon. I think we're overplaying our hand."  
  


"Ajirra and that Breton boy are doing fine in Bravil," she reminds him, not for the first time.  
  


"No one is doing fine in Bravil."  
  


"Well, they're doing as fine as you can do.” She squeezes his hand. “They're not turning a loss anymore. And it's been less than a year."  
  


"It  _ has _ been less than a year. They might still sink. And then we will have put all our money into  _ this, _ and we—"  
  


"Stop. All right? Stop."  
  


"Why not," says J'hani, continuing the conversation down an old and worn avenue, "expand into Bruma? And the west?"  
  


Gemile tries to keep from rolling her eyes. "D'you honestly think Nords and Colovians will be lining up to buy trifles from us?"  
  


"There are more than just Colovians in the west. As there are more than just Nibenese in the east."  
  


"But we have to look for the biggest market. The rest will come when we have the money to put into. . .peddling, and everything." She folds her arms. "This is all stuff  _ you _ should be telling  _ me. _ "  
  


"And why is that?"  
  


"You're the one who does all the money. You know this is the right move."  
  


"I. . ." Instead of finishing his thought, J'hani sighs and rests his head on her shoulder.   
  


"I know," she says.

* * *

"Well, that was a waste of bloody time." Gemile  _ thunks _ her glass down on the table.  
  


J'hani meets her sour look with an equally sour look. Once, over coffee, Papa had looked at him sidelong and said,  _ you, my boy, are the sort who will lose a foot and thank Arkay for sparing him the cost of a new shoe.  _ He seems little inclined to give thanks to anyone just now.  
  


She sighs. "I j—Im-Ru is a genius! He should have his  _ own _ company, let alone a—"  
  


"It isn't going to happen."  
  


"And that fatheaded bastard Caro," Gemile barrels on, "didn't so much as greet us before—"  
  


"It isn't going to  _ happen. _ " J'hani takes a long, resigned sip of water. "Try and remember where we are."  
  


"Maybe we should have started with Bruma."  
  


He shrugs. "There is no reason we can't now."  
  


"Only carriage fare! Only provisions! Only  _ coats! _ You do the books, you should know we stuck a  _ lot _ of fucking coin into Bravil! And what are we going to tell Daro'Tsaruzi and Im—"  
  


"The truth,” J’hani cuts in. “They knew not to expect a miracle."  
  


"That's a load of shit." She refills her glass. "So what now? Do we just piss off back home?"  
  


"For now."  
  


"J'hani,” groans Gemile. But she can't follow it with anything.  
  


Someone at the table next to them stands, clears her throat and shuffles over. "Ex—excuse me. You'll—ah—I didn't want to interrupt, but I—ahem."  
  


Gemile finds herself standing. The woman—only a girl, really—is distinctly tall and thin, and her skin, as well as her large, dull eyes and her thin hair, are all the same veiled grey. She leans heavily on a cane. Rosewood. Like Caula's.  
  


"I be—I beg your pardon again—but I just—I—" The girl sighs and turns to J'hani, her hollow face colouring a little. "Your name is J'hani," she says, and the tone of her voice lies so squarely in between a question and a statement that Gemile can't imagine what response she might want. The girl does not, however, wait for a response.  
  


"Not—that wo—wouldn't be—not a. . .J'hani Rouvandi?" she stammers—not, it seems, out of nerves; her breath seems to be failing her.  
  


"It would be," answers J'hani, raising an eyebrow.   
  


"Ah," says the girl, smiling shakily and holding out a large, bony hand. "Well. M-my name is Simplifora Lexennia. I th—I think that you may have. . .may have been acq—uainted with my grandmother, Lady Sybistina."  
  


He freezes. "I do not think I can place the name."  
  


"Oh," says Simplifora. Her face falls. "Well. . .wo—ould you be so kind as—as to j-join me at the estate? P-perhaps it will—will remind you."  
  


". . .Now?" asks J'hani.   
  


Simplifora considers that, chewing her narrow, bluish lip as she thinks. "I—I—I was conc—erned that you might be leaving."  
  


"Ah." J'hani glances at Gemile, who raises her eyebrows,  _ damned if I know. _ "Our plans here have been. . .nipped in the bud, I suppose, my lady. I don't think we intended to stay the night."  
  


"Oh, cou—could I possibly convince you?" begs Simplifora, looking surprisingly moved. "Is—is there any device at all I—to—?"  
  


J'hani meets Gemile's eye again, his pupils thin with alarm. "Would you give us a moment, lady Lexennia?"   
  


"Oh! Of co—ourse! Excuse me!" frets Simplifora, showing no signs whatever of leaving.  
  


"Excuse you," says Gemile under her breath, scooping up her wine glass and leading a troubled J'hani outside to the tavern doorstep.   
  


_ "Mor, mor, mor zissi kha'jay. _ Shit," he mumbles, crouching. " _ Rik _ —fucking— _ sheggori. _ "  
  


"What are the odds, eh?" Gemile drains her glass. "D'you feel all right?"  
  


"Gem," he says, tearily, taking her free hand, "what am I going to do?"  
  


"We can leave," she shrugs, sitting beside him and smoothing his hair. "You don't owe her anything."  
  


"No?"  
  


"No. And I'll tell her so."  
  


"She isn't well, is she?" he mumbles.  
  


"What does that matter?" Gemile bites the inside of her cheek. "I s'pose you pity her."  
  


"Well—yes?"  
  


She huffs, a short breath in the vague shape of a laugh.  _ Why am I not surprised?  
  
_

J'hani's eyes flash. "I wish you wouldn't."  
  


" _ Cor meum, _ you'll do what you think is right." Gemile loops her arm through his. "I'll come with you, since you're going."  
  


"I—I don't think that I want you to," he says, slowly, discovering the truth of it as he speaks.  
  


"Oh." Wait. "J'hani, you can't visit some noble halfwit's estate—at night—in the heart of the city—not by yourself."  
  


"It's Lexennia's granddaughter, Gem, if there were anyone—"  
  


"You don't know the first thing  _ about _ her. What if something—? Just like that—that guard who—"  
  


"And if you came with me, what?" cuts in J'hani, that horrible blankness creeping into his voice. "You would fell each attacker in honourable combat?"  
  


"It would be different."  
  


"True. If you were cut down in this city, someone might care. I'm going," he continues—blankly—standing and dusting off the front of his shirt.  
  


"I'll—I—OK—I'll book us for the night," flounders Gemile, feeling her eyes start to sting. "D'you have your key still?"  
  


"Yes."  
  


"When are you going to be back? J—Please, don't make me wait up all night, love."  
  


"You can sleep. I have a key." The hard line of his mouth falters. "I promise to make it as brief as I can. Please don't worry after me."  
  


"Well, I can't help it, can I," snivels Gemile. "What if something does happen?"  
  


"Then I imagine you'll raise a great fuss for me." He shows her a pittance of a smile—too small and cold to cover for the thing he's said.  
  


"Arkay's  _ eyes, _ J'hani." She sniffs. "Go, then."  
  


Moments after storming off, she realises that she hasn't a clue where she's going, and that no one's paid for the wine, and that she ought to return the glass—which, considering, is a silly thing to worry about—which makes her want to laugh—which, considering, makes her want to cry.  
  


She winds up outside the inn where they're staying, and, while she's there, quietly pays for another night's accommodation. What she  _ really _ wants is to go back to the tavern, but she makes herself pace around the town square until she can be certain J'hani and the Lexennia girl have left.  
  


As she loiters, the little details of Leyawiin start to register. The soupy evening air. The large amount of beggars—mostly Khajiit and Argonian—who, at least for beggars, are excessively good-humoured, and always seem to be chatting amongst themselves and with friendly passers-by. Someone, for some reason, is running a stand in the middle of the square, selling what seem to be plain wraps. She buys one.  
  


"Mind walking one of these over to Jara-Tei?" asks the Argonian woman behind the stand. "Tell him it's from Ket?"  
  


"Odd—sorry. Odd thing to ask of a customer," says Gemile, swallowing her mouthful as quickly as possible.  
  


The woman—Ket, apparently—shrugs one shoulder. "I'm about to close up, and if he doesn't get it, the stray dogs will. You don't have to, I'll get it to him."  
  


"No, I'll do it." She takes the proffered wrap and weaves between streets per Ket's directions. "Jara-Tei?" she asks, when at last she's come to a dirt path on the verge of the slums.   
  


"Who's asking?" he replies. An Argonian, cross-legged, dressed in overlarge linens—which must have fit him well at one point—and leaning calmly into the shoulder of an equally thin young Dunmer.   
  


The Dunmer bursts out laughing. "He's the Grey Fox in disguise. He won't give his name to just anyone."  
  


"Why Ket sent a Nibenay. . ." grumbles Jara-Tei, reaching, meanwhile, for the wrap. Gemile hands it over.  
  


"She's married to that Sijoni kid, you know, this one."  
  


"Who?"  
  


"J—ugh—Vasha's boy. J—come on—" the Dunmer snaps his fingers in Gemile's direction.  
  


"J'hani," she supplies, cautiously.  
  


" _ Ju'ohn! _ Hani Sijoni," he elbows Jara-Tei, "skinny boy. Shy boy."  
  


"If you say so," replies Jara-Tei, halving the wrap and passing half to his friend.  
  


"My name's Gemile Caridenius," offers Gemile.  
  


"Beldris," says the Dunmer, "and that's Jara."  
  


"Jara- _ Tei _ to you."  
  


"OK, introduce yourself then, you mopey green slackwit."  
  


"I am," murmurs Jara-Tei.  
  


Gemile clears her throat. "Can I sit down?"  
  


"Do as you like, Nibenay," shrugs Beldris. "Cyrodiil always does."  
  


She sits. "I—can I offer either of you the rest of this? I'm not hungry."  
  


"Yeah," says Beldris, taking it. "So what have you got to cry about?" he asks, crossing his legs and straightening (Jara-Tei lifts his head with a displeased murmur). "Got stung by a buzzer? They have those here, great shiny ones from Black Marsh."  
  


"No," says Gemile grudgingly. "It's complicated."  
  


"Oh, by Vehk, it's complicated." Beldris mocks her. “Well, we’re on a tight schedule—great important—meeting tonight, of course, with Caro and all the big nobles—"  
  


"Shut up," Jara-Tei groans, and drops his head back onto Beldris' shoulder.  
  


"Ow! Spine!"  
  


"Good."  
  


"I suppose I take your meaning," says Gemile. She tells them everything—why not?—about the trading company, the trip to Leyawiin—in brief terms, she touches Lexennia's murder, but of course, Beldris and Jara-Tei already know. Beldris especially wants to know about how she and J'hani met—and so she explains about the palace—and she thinks of Calaxes, and the thought crosses her mind that Jagar Tharn has ears in Leyawiin, and she changes the subject; Im-Ru and Daro'Tsaruzi, the failed branch.   
  


Jara-Tei is the one to suggest hiring an Imperial as a figurehead, while the other two handle the real work.  
  


As she ponders that, Beldris gives her his own account—like J'hani, his family moved to Cyrodiil in the name of opportunity, first to Bravil and then Leyawiin. Beldris didn't develop what he terms his 'fun habits' until long after the rest of his family, destitute, returned to Morrowind. He took up with the Fighters' Guild for a short while ('just 'til they realised I can't lift a sword'), and now shares a small home with Jara-Tei (who flatly refuses to speak on his own behalf).  
  


Gemile digs up the lingering bit of Dunmeris she learned from Tillari, just to see what she remembers—and picks up a few new words from a delighted Beldris.  
  


It's pitch-black out when they part. Chewing on her bottom lip, Gemile offers them whatever septims are left in her day purse, which comes to about twenty. Something in her revolts at the prospect of going back to the inn and lying, sleepless, on top of the rough sheets for hours. Instead, she doubles back to the tavern, and she's already opened a bottle of Surilie's (it's terrible, but it's potent) before it occurs to her that there's no money in her purse.   
  


"Oh," says someone—she turns—a tall Ohmes man with tattoos as well as an insistent smile emblazoned across his face, "forget your coin, did you? Hazard of drinking alone."   
  


"I hardly see how it's any business of yours," says Gemile, stubbornly pouring herself a second glass.  
  


"Well, let me make you an offer. Most generous, if I say so myself. We'll split the bottle, and I'll foot the bill."  
  


"Why?"  
  


"Dearest, I cannot stand the sight of a pretty girl drinking by herself."  
  


Gemile thinks of leaving, of cursing him out—when she was younger, she probably would have done—but she really does need the wine paid for. The publican informed her when she came in that Simplifora Lexennia had settled it for her earlier, but no one else is around now. Instead, cursing herself for getting into this mess to begin with, she sighs. "All right."  
  


The man holds out his hand—his hair is grey, she notices, and a deep groove appears in his cheek when he smirks. "Dar'zhim."  
  


Gemile's stomach drops. Her given name smacks of Gold Leaf. "Lucia," she says.  
  


And she descends into sullen silence as she drinks. Creepy bastard. It's fine. It's half a bottle. She can hold half a bottle, and he'll pay, and she'll go  _ home.  
  
_

Dar'zhim, on the other hand, becomes chattier as the night wears on. "So what, exactly, do you do, sweet Lucia?"  
  


"I," she chokes, "I work for a fletcher in Bruma." And her mind starts to go everywhere. What if he goes up to Bruma and checks for her? What if he starts asking questions about arrows?  
  


"Bruma! But that  _ is _ a ways."  
  


"The weather here is a nice change," says Gemile shortly. "What do you do?"  
  


"I'm afraid—" he begins, then smiles woozily and rolls his eyes.  _ "Va renrij, ike jer yuj kor, ahziss vari khunu'tu."  
  
_

"Oh," says Gemile mildly. "You're very blunt, aren't you."  
  


"I beg your pardon, my sweet?"  
  


_ "And  _ vari khunu'tu, _ " _ she continues, in competent (if slightly run-together) Ta'agra,  _ "is much too familiar for my liking, especially from a thief."  
  
_

Dar'zhim breathes out a long sigh.  _ "Oh, now that  _ is _ interesting, isn't it?"  
  
_

"We've finished the wine. Were you going to pay, or was this a waste of my time?"  
  


_ "Why so tetchy? We were just getting to know one another, Lucia."  
  
_

"I doubt that."  
  


_ "Listen," _ he says, leaning forward,  _ "you and I may have something more to talk about." _ Dar'zhim glances about the room, notes an absence of Khajiit patrons, and continues.  _ "Have you ever heard of the Renrijra Krin?"  
  
_

"'Bandits with'—" She pauses.  _ "I don't know the word  _ 'krin' _.”  
  
_

"'Grin'", he says, demonstrating.  _ "Coming from Bruma, you won't know this, but there is a land dispute happening here. Our fool of a Mane wants to sign over a piece of Elsweyr to the Count. We—the Renrijra—are trying to stop it."  
  
_

"Just by being nuisances?"  
  


_ "We don't do worse to the Nibenay than they have done to us. You're aware that Castle Leyawiin holds a torture chamber which sees exclusively 'beastfolk' visitors? I suppose it's an open secret, but being, as you are, a foreigner. . ."  
  
_

"Ah."  
  


_ "These are the same people who get picked up by the guard for no reason—nonsense crimes. The Count wants to take Elsweyr and then excise the Khajiiti from it!"  
  
_

_ "Do you torture people, too, then?"  
  
_

_ "No. We only kill."  
  
_

_ "What about Lexennia? Was that the Renrijra?"  
  
_

_ "No," _ says Dar'zhim, chuckling humourlessly.  _ "And you'll say that name  _ quietly _ if you don't want undue attention, sweetest. She was an uppity old crone who taught our children to want nothing more than to be Imperials. But she was generous, and there is no trait we value more highly. What makes you interested in her?"  
  
_

_ "You know who it was, then?"  
  
_

_ "The guard captain. Not that he was captain at the time. He made his rank last year. You can ask any guard in town for his name. But I ask again, sweet Lucia, what interests you so?"  
  
_

"I think it's about time you paid," says Gemile loudly.   
  


_ "Not yet, my dear. You're just beginning to fascinate me."  
  
_

_ "Well, you can let me go now, or I can tell the guard about your day job. They must be dying to pick up another  _ renrij. _ "  
  
_

His lip curls.  _ "Here I thought you might have a little sympathy for the cause. But no. Another of the Empire's toadies. You'll excuse me my foolishness."  
  
_

_ "I do sympathise!"  _ Gemile finds herself insisting, and then pulls back, frustrated with her own eagerness.  _ "But I want to go home."  
  
_

"Off with you then," he snaps, shooing her as though she were a rat. She doesn't bother looking back, making instead for the inn.  
  


J'hani, lying on the bed, is so immobile that at first she doesn't notice him in the dark, and then when she does, she thinks he must be sleeping. She startles doubly when he speaks. "Hello."  
  


"Fuck! Gods. Hello. Hi." She starts to undo the bodice of her dress, teetering a little from the drink.  
  


"Well, you didn't need to wait up for me, in the end."  
  


Gemile sighs. "How was it?"  
  


"I could ask you the same question."  
  


"I had a productive evening,” she says.  
  


"So it seems." J'hani sits up. "Did you know that it's three in the morning?"  
  


She pauses. "I didn't."  
  


"Hm."  
  


"J'hani," she says, stepping out of her dress, "if you've something to say, say it. I have a headache and I hate it when you're cold with me."  
  


He sighs. Then, in a softer tone than she's heard all evening: "Will you come and sit with me?"  
  


"In a bit." Gemile tugs her nightgown over her head—not the good one, that's in Cheydinhal. This is a blue cotton potato sack with a binding stitch here and there. But it is soft. She shakes out her hair and settles down beside J'hani, with her back against the headboard.  
  


"Shall I braid your hair?" he offers.  
  


"Please," she says, unwinding a leather cord from her wrist and passing it back to him. "Or else you'll go and lie on it."  
  


He laughs. "I cannot be faulted for what I do in my sleep."  
  


"So how did it go, with the Lexennia girl?"  
  


"She has no idea at all about—what happened to her grandmother. I couldn't believe it. I thought she might have been lying."  
  


"And wasn't she?"  
  


"I don't think that she was. She only came here a year or two ago—because of her health."  
  


"Well, surely she's no better off here?  _ I _ can hardly breathe in this humidity, and I was born in it."  
  


"She said that her father died—one of Lady Sybistina's sons. I think that was the thing which made her want to come back."  
  


"So—what—she just wanted stories from you?"  
  


"I think so. I suppose I was the best person to ask, short of one of the other sons."  
  


"Hmm."  
  


"She is quite nice, Gem. I feel sorry for her."  
  


"I know."  
  


J'hani breathes in, winding up for a great sigh, but thinks better of it. "And your productive evening?"  
  


"I ran into two fellows in the slums."  
  


"In—how did you end up—?"  
  


"I was delivering food. —Oh, don't fucking snicker." She reaches behind her and messes up his hair.   
  


"No, no, I think that's very noble," he grins. "I wouldn't have expected that from you,  _ khunu'tu. _ "  
  


That makes her jump a little. "I also had a drink with a creepy Renrijra bastard. But one thing at a time."  
  


"You what? With the Renrijra Krin?" He chooses that moment to finish tying off her plait, so that, turning around, she can see the concern in his face.  
  


"One thing at a time,” repeats Gemile. “D'you know anyone named Beldris?"  
  


"Er—I don't think so?"  
  


"Oh. I didn't get the impression you were best friends, but he called you 'Hani Sijoni'. He must have known you when you were small."  
  


"Ah,” he says. “Well, everyone knows everyone where we lived."  
  


"So I got to talking with him and his friend, and—d'you think it might be an idea for us to try to hire on an Imperial?"  
  


J'hani rolls his eyes. "Yes, that would definitely solve all our problems with the Count."  
  


"I mean as a decoy. Daro'Tsaruzi and Im-Ru would be the ones really running it."  
  


"Caro is not going to fall for that," says J'hani, shaking his head. "We'd need at least a majority of Imperials, and we can't pay five people."  
  


"Would it hurt to pitch it? We can give up and go home once he says 'no'."  
  


"Where did this idea come from, again?" he asks.  
  


"From Jara-Tei."  
  


"You told two strangers about all our plans, then?"  
  


_ Also about me. And about you, _ thinks Gemile, but she holds her tongue. "What's the harm? They're a couple of addicts."  
  


He holds her stare for a few endless seconds. ". . .so tell me about the  _ renrij. _ "  
  


"I went back to the tavern later, but I realised I'd given—well—"  
  


"What about not throwing money away? Will I have to be the sensible one, now?" He cracks a small, grim smile.  
  


"Stop, all right? It—I thought—I thought it was the least I could do. It's not like I gave away hundreds of pieces, I was only carrying—what—twenty."  
  


"Fine. So?"  
  


" _ So _ I was—panicking, and some old Ohmes bugger comes up and sits next to me and offers to pay for my wine if I'll put up with him for a bit."  
  


"But—he was already drunk? Or he just volunteered the information that he was Renrijra?"  
  


"He was tipsy, and he said it in Ta'agra, because he thought I wouldn't understand and he'd get a laugh out of it. Silly old bastard. But he started telling me about what the Renrijra Krin sort of  _ do _ —"  
  


"Blunder about, thieving and murdering, until by some magic the Empire will bow to them?"  
  


"Well—" she giggles breathlessly, "yeah, sort of. But I thought he had a point. I mean, obviously, he was an arsehole, but when you look at the way the Khajiit in this city have to live? I—"  
  


"Do you think," says J'hani sharply, "that people like him are improving their lot by confirming every noble's fears about us?"  
  


"I can understand wanting to be independent."  
  


"So can I, but the Renrijra don't really believe in their cause. I hardly think they believe in anything except for stealing jewelry and bedding women."  
  


"Well. . .my point was, we got to talking about. . .Lexennia's murder. . ."  
  


"You br—with a  _ renrij. _ You—"  
  


"Just listen! He knows who did it—the new guard captain—"  
  


"Urtarus is his name. Tyranus Urtarus."  
  


"I. . .you know?"  
  


"Gemile, sometimes y—" J'hani puts his hands on his forehead and takes a few breaths. "I know the man's name, yes."  
  


"But. . .you haven't—?"  
  


"No, I haven't reported him. And I don't intend to do it now."  
  


"I don't understand," she says honestly.  
  


"It's simple. I—am—not going to report him. I think you should tell the guard about the  _ renrij, _ and then we should get out of this city before he realises."  
  


Gemile frowns. "You don't care that he's just going to get away with it?"  
  


"He already has. And I am tired of thinking about it."  
  


"You'll rest so much easier when he's behind bars! A man like that—captain of the guard?"  
  


"Fine—simpler still," says J'hani, starting to tremble. "I don't—think that he's going to see consequences. And on the slim chance that he does, it w—it is not at all worth what it would take to get there."  
  


"And what's that?"  
  


"Gem—I would have to—to dredge everything up— _ again _ —before strangers—I might even become a target—and then so would you—"   
  


She puts her arms around him. He seems to shrink beneath her touch.  
  


"It shouldn't have to fall to me," he says, hoarsely, after a very long while. "All those Renrijra know it, just as well, and they don't care."  
  


"Which is why,” she suggests, “it's got to be you.”  
  


"I just want to go home, Gemile."  
  


"We will—but this is the right thing to do."  
  


"I don't care. I just want to go home."  
  


"And the shop?"  
  


_ "I want to go home."  
  
_

"It isn't fair to Daro'Tsaruzi and Im-Ru not to at least try, is it?" she asks, in the softest, least demanding voice she has. But it's no good. 

In the morning, they catch the earliest carriage.


	41. 3E 395, Second Seed 30

Gemile slumps into the sofa. The sudden heat wave was enough to close down the market both in Cheydinhal and Gold Leaf, as well as the hall of the Mages' Guild—which stands in a corner of the city so windless that, even with magic, it's barely liveable in this heat—but Lavinia, scribbling busily in an enormous blue book, barely seems to have noticed.  
  


It must help that she keeps her hair so short, now—barely past her ears, light and curly the way Papa's is. Her deep blue mages' robes set her brown skin aglow.   
  


"Do us a frost spell, will you?" Gemile sighs.  
  


Lavinia makes no response whatever.  
  


"Lavi—"  
  


"I heard you." She stands, frowning, and makes a slow, broad movement with her hands, mouthing words to herself as she does. Nothing seems to change for a while, and then a mild breeze picks up inside the room. The air becomes colder. Something small and wet lands on Gemile's cheek. A snowflake.  
  


"That's amazing."  
  


"I know," shrugs Lavinia, sitting down again. She touches the book and her gaze snaps upward to the dancing snowflakes in the air. "We can't have snow, though."   
  


"Why? Oh, your book!"  
  


"Yeah. Ugh." Closing her eyes this time in her concentration, she searches the air with her hands until at last the snowflakes dwindle into nothing—the wind, thankfully, remains.  
  


Someone knocks at the door. Gemile stands, but J'hani, rushing from the kitchen, passes her by. "It's all right," he calls. She smiles and sits down again.  
  


"D'you suppose it's the mail?" she asks Lavinia.  
  


"I dunno." Lavinia blinks, seeming to recall something. "Letter came for you last week at home. I read it. Valens says they're thinking of making him an officer."  
  


"What? But he's so young!"  
  


Lavinia shrugs again. "Twenty-one. Old enough."  
  


"Did he say where he was? Not Skyrim?"  
  


"No. Some scuffle on the Morrowind border."  
  


"That isn't too far—he should've come and seen us!"  
  


Lavinia holds her gaze for a moment and scoffs. "You sound just like Mama. He's not on furlough until Sun's Height."  
  


"Gem," says J'hani, closing the door. The wind lifts his hair as he sits beside her. "It's, ah, from a Trygve Long-Sighted."  
  


"Tryg—oh!" She nearly jumps out of her seat when she realises. "Are you certain?"  
  


"Quite certain," he says. "Lavinia, could I tr—"  
  


"The knife?"  
  


"Er, yes."  
  


"Here," says Lavinia flatly, holding out her ingredient knife, a sharp small thing with a bone handle. J'hani takes it and opens the letter.  
  


"Read it, then," urges Gemile.  
  


He waggles his eyebrows at her. She tries halfheartedly to snatch it from him, but he only laughs and unfolds the paper.  
  


"Hey," he says after a while, grinning like a little boy, "Trygve's had children."  
  


_ "What?"  
  
_

"He says that he fell in love with a woman in Hammerfell, and they've had twins."  
  


" _ Tal _ —! Er—I didn't think he'd be the type!" She takes the letter and reads through it herself. There's no mistaking Talin's chicken-scratch. "But—what is he now, twenty—"  
  


"Twenty-five, I think."  
  


"That's so young," she says, faintly.  
  


"Oh?" J'hani turns his full attention to her. "And what is the proper age for children, then?"  
  


"Well, I—"  
  


"Never," suggests Lavinia, saving her.  
  


"You don't want children, Lavinia?" J'hani asks mildly.  
  


"Good fucking Divines, no. I don’t want children."  
  


"You know, I was your age when I—" Gemile pauses to think. Martinus is ten this year.   
  


Lavinia breaks the eventual silence. "I can't be Arch-Mage and have brats running around."  
  


"That's sensible," smiles Gemile.  
  


"I know it is. Was that the only mail?"   
  


"Aside from bills," replies J'hani.  
  


"Why," prods Gemile, "would there be anything in our mail concerning you?"  
  


"Tati, maybe," mumbles Lavinia, without taking her eyes off her work. "He'd write you first."  
  


"Oh, would not,” she says. “It's a very long trip to Valenwood, anyway, he'll still only be settling in."  
  


"If he hasn't caught a fever and died."  
  


"Stop that," chides Gemile.  
  


"He actually went and left," says Lavinia faintly.   
  


"Well, he decided it ages ago."   
  


"No, he didn't, not really." She looks up and, for just an instant, her light eyes make Gemile think of a small child caught in the middle of mischief. "I—" She shakes her head and flips to a new page.


	42. 3E 398, Evening Star 2

The priestling hangs his head; angry tears stream unchecked down his face. "In his own  _ temple _ ," he says, scuffing the marble floor with his shoe. "Disgrace."  
  


"He wasn't. . ." Gemile hesitates. "He wasn't really planning to. . .take over the Empire."  
  


"And if he was? Did he then deserve to be cut down like an animal in his own sanctum?"  
  


"I—"  
  


“The Emperor was strangling the worship. It's criminal. I thank the gods for giving us an Archbishop brave enough to fight back at all—I only wish they had not called him back to their side so soon." He sighs and smooths the rumpled capelet of his robe. "Excuse me, please. Acolyte Thedk Nasar at your service."  
  


"Gemile Caridenius."  
  


"I know," says the Acolyte. "It was the request of His Excellency that you receive an inheritance at the time of his murder."  
  


"At the time of his  _ murder? _ "  
  


Nasar smiles bitterly. "He always said exactly that. He was certain of it. We would always tell him no—we would protect him if it came to that—lot of good that did. There will be no justice, either," he adds, musing. "What are we going to do? Send the Imperial Guard after the culprits? When the Imperial Guard  _ are _ the culprits!"  
  


"You’re—" Gemile sighs. "What makes you so certain?"  
  


"I, ah." Nasar looks away—for a moment she expects him to start sobbing again— but he's drawing up the sleeve of his robe. She reels when she realises what, exactly, she's looking at: a broad, jagged weal running the length of his forearm, the pink flesh laid bare against his dark-brown skin. "It's healing," he says quickly, watching her face.  
  


"Was that—?"  
  


"When they came in. . .ah, it was a whole squad, all dressed like the Emperor's best guard, and. . .I was here, in the main hall, and so were an initiate and a sister. And Calaxes, naturally. A wood elf woman showed me her sword and said that nothing would happen to me if I didn't make trouble. Of course. . .I made trouble. Of course I made trouble!" he emphasises. "What was I going to do? Just invite them in?  _ Watch _ them  _ butcher _ the Archbishop?  
  


"And—'butcher' is the right word, you know. His Excellency fought like a cornered beast. His, ah. . .his body. . .is in the undercroft, in case you want to pay your respects, but—well. . .as I say, there is only one word for what's been done to him."  
  


"You're very calm suddenly," remarks Gemile, uneasily.  
  


"It's been waves. Right now, ma'am, I want to smile. I'm thinking of what Calaxes might say if he saw himself. I don't think he ever prepared for this. He always seemed to think it would be poison, or. . .if it was a blade. . .at least a poisoned blade. A slip. Not the Emperor's own soldiers making a battlefield of his Temple. I had better not let you down to see him after all, or he'll die again from the embarrassment."  
  


". . .oh," says Gemile. "That's all right. We should. . .respect the man's wishes."  
  


"Yes. The—ah—no, let's leave it at that, then. You aren't here for talk."  
  


"I don't know why I  _ am _ here, actually. I was summoned."  
  


"You weren't told? Well—" Nasar clears his throat. "It won't surprise you to hear that a man like Calaxes Septim wrote, and regularly revised, his will."  
  


"I suppose not,” she says. “And?"  
  


"And? You're in it."  
  


Gemile blinks. "Oh."  
  


"Come with me, if you please." He fixes his sleeve and strides ahead of her, into a side room on the far end of the hall. Calaxes' office, as modest as she remembers. On the desk is a two-ended scroll, crumbed with the red remains of a wax seal. Nasar approaches it, and unrolls it as reverently as if the scroll was itself a corpse. "Mm. . .here." It takes him nearly no time at all to find her name in a copse of thin, curly Old Cyrodilic. "To Gemile Marciana Caridenius, the mother of my brother Martin Septim, the half of my personal fortune: that it aid you in your search."  
  


"The  _ hal _ —my search for  _ what? _ "  
  


Nasar shrugs. "That's all he's written."  
  


"And. . ." Gemile frowns and bends over the scroll to read its contents for herself. "Half his  _ entire _ fortune? He had no one else to leave it to?"  
  


"I don't think I should speak on that. I will say that he's left the other half to the Temple."  
  


". . .OK. What does this 'fortune' entail, then?"  
  


"All other accounts being settled, it’s something to the tune of one hundred and fifty thousand septims. The half of which comes to seventy-five thousand."  
  


"Ah—"  
  


"Well, I was going to take a fee of one thousand to cover the funeral expenses. The other nine thousand," he adds, "will come from the pool of the Temple of the One. As such, ma'am, you're entitled to seventy-four thousand septims."  
  


Gemile pulls out the chair and drops into it. "OK. I—OK. I. . .OK." She searches Nasar's face for any sign of a joke, and turns up nothing. "OK."  
  


"Are you overwhelmed?"  
  


"Am I bl—" She blows out a tense breath. "Seventy-four thousand is a bloody lot of money! In coin? How am I going to take all of that home with me?"  
  


"The majority of it isn't in coin. Cal—His Excellency had much of it reforged into, ah, bars. Stressful business, handling money," Nasar continues, nearly to himself. "His Excellency needn't contend with that problem any more. He was very harried in his last days, ma'am. At rest now, though."  
  


Gemile half-listens as she scans the will, marking the spot with her finger when she finds it. "Listen. Acolyte Nasar?"  
  


"Thedk to my friends."  
  


"There's nothing here about how the inheritance should be split for the funeral."  
  


Nasar’s expression sours. "No. This was the solution I reached. But if that seventy-fifth thousand is very dear to you, I'm certain we can—"  
  


"We should split it equally. That's the very least I can do. I'll go home with seventy, seventy will go to the temple, and the other ten go to the funeral."  
  


"Ah,” he says. “I think His Excellency would appreciate that very much indeed."  
  


Gemile smiles. "If—" She bites her lip. If it were J'hani, he'd offer up the full ten thousand, and then shower riches on every sad soul between here and Cheydinhal on the way home. "It's only fair."  
  


"I'll make the arrangements."  
  


"Aren't there any healers in this place?" she bursts out—every time Nasar moves his arm, that grisly flash of pink traps her gaze.  
  


"It was a saw blade, I'm afraid. You have to do it by stages, or you end up with a great gnarled branch of scar tissue in your arm. I'm told it is not comfortable." The corner of his mouth twitches. "Such swords are definitely  _ not _ standard issue. . .I imagine the guards came equipped for a special occasion."  
  


"Oh."  
  


"But please. Stay with us for the night, and in the morning you can depart with the full measure of your new wealth."  
  


"I. . .when's the funeral?"  
  


"Ah." Nasar frowns and twiddles his thumbs. When he speaks, his voice is terribly gentle in his own peculiar way. "It will be a few weeks. Things to decide. . .what we plan to tell the public. . . _ whether _ to tell the public. . .where to bury him. . .yes, we have a brother downstairs who is quite exhausting himself casting a frost spell. For purposes of preservation, you understand. For my own small part, it brings me calm to have Calaxes among us a little while longer."  
  


"Right," says Gemile, her skin crawling. "Send me a missive when you have a date. I'd like to be there."  


Acolyte Nasar beams.


	43. 3E 399, Last Seed 11 (!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for mentions of domestic abuse - there's a summary in the end notes

"I want to thank you both for coming," says Suria Quaspus, flipping through her ledger and waving with her free hand for them to sit.  
  


Gemile gives her a weary look, pressing the heels of her hands into her temples. Neither she nor J'hani have been sleeping well. She wants to go home and sleep for an hour or two before opening—but more than anything, she wants the angry letters from creditors, the bills and admonitions, the collectors from the Capital disappointed with their lacking stock, to catch fire and crumble to ash.  
  


"Where's Count Indarys?" asks J'hani.  
  


Quaspus looks over the top of the book at him. "He's given me his seal, if you want to see it. Now." She glances sidelong out the window. "We're retracting our permit."  
  


Gemile's stomach sinks, but she asks the obvious question. "What permit?"  
  


"What we've done with you two is something we can't do with every business in Cheydinhal—that is: artifice a monopoly. If we tried to do something similar with the inns and taverns in town, that is, to choose one to put our weight behind and hope that it pushes the others out of the running, it would be nothing more than a resource drain. Different people visit different establishments. For example: if we shut down that Cornerclub hovel. . .we would have a plague of fool Dunmer trying to smuggle flin over the border and brewing it in their bathtubs. Of course, none of this is regulated, least of all these brewers and smugglers, and so not all of the product is safe. People get ill. They go blind, perhaps. . .problems upon problems in short.   
  


"But this is all a result of a very broad market. Everyone goes out for a drink somewhere, sometime. Now. . ." Quaspus taps her quill pen to her lip. ". . .luxury goods. Jewelers. Chocolatiers. Expensive tailors. The story changes. Very lucrative, of course, because the market, though small, is consistent. If—"  
  


"We're not 'luxury goods'," cuts in Gemile, hopelessly, sensing where Quaspus' monologue is going. "We sell. . .spices and things, too. We buy them in bulk, and—"  
  


"You do me a disservice," continues Quaspus. "I'm fully aware of that. But the vast majority of your income is. . .totems, crowns, obscure tomes. . .expensive to procure, and sold no more cheaply. The  _ difference _ between a tavern and your sort of business is that we simply cannot have five aspiring chocolatiers floundering about, dividing the market. One. And it must be competent and efficient enough to turn the profits we want to see. Or we are forced to cull it."  
  


J'hani sighs and catches Gemile's eye before speaking. "We are being 'culled', then?" 

"Personally, I think you've spread yourselves too thin with the endeavours in Bruma and Bravil. It's your choice, of course, if you think that drunken Nords and skooma addicts make for a better clientele than the folk of Cheydinhal, but the numbers have told tales." Quaspus sets down the ledger on the table. "We charge a severance fee of three thousand septims, which I might have waived, had you not seen fit, madam Caridenius Rouvandi, to interrupt me, and after the payment of which you will be free to operate in other cities—assuming, of course, that you have the permission of the local Count or Countess."  
  


"You can't pull some new fee out of your arse, Suria," Gemile flares, unhappily. "You've been taking half our earnings for years!"  
  


"And if only they had been ampler. Then I wouldn't have had to clear my morning to speak to you."  
  


Gemile tries to take a breath, but finds her throat full of angry, terrified tears. "Go and fuck a slaughterfish," she blurts.  
  


J'hani elbows her.  
  


"Right," says Quaspus, raising an eyebrow and marking something in her book. "You have three weeks to sort your affairs and get out. After that, I will enlist the guard."  
  


"Get out of  _ Cheydinhal? _ You honestly want us to leave the county?"   
  


"No," says Quaspus thoughtfully. "Just the city. Although I would not, madam Caridenius Rouvandi, get any ideas about moving shop to Gold Leaf Moor. You may well endanger more than just your own livelihood."  
  


"You're threatening my family?" demands Gemile, disbelieving. She surges to her feet—why?—to storm out of the room, to rain tears on Suria's hands, to fall forward and not stand up again—then her whole body lurches. Someone has grabbed her by her wrist.  
  


J'hani glares at her.  _ "Stop."  
  
_

She wrests her arm away from him. Or—she tries to. He's much stronger.  
  


"Let's go, then," she mutters, hot-faced, lifting her hands.  
  


"Thank you for your time," J'hani tells Quaspus, and leaves, keeping his iron hold on Gemile's wrist all the while—even out into the main hall, and then the courtyard. Dragging her behind him like a pet. Her face burns.  
  


"Let  _ go _ of me!" she bursts out, the  _ instant _ they're out of view of the gate guards, and wrenches her arm away with all her might. He lets her go. "What's the  _ matter _ with you?"  
  


"Gemile—"  
  


"Like I'm a child that won't listen. In front of everyone—you callous fucking  _ prick. _ Let—" Gemile spears him with her eyes when he moves to take her by the shoulders. " _ Don't _ touch me."  
  


"Fine," says J'hani, folding his arms instead. "Would you rather I had let you fall upon her? What do you think would have happened?"  
  


"Fall up—? I wasn't. I wasn't," she insists, trying miserably to set out her thoughts in a way he'll understand: _I'm tired; I don't feel well; I can't have this—_ dismal little sectioned sentences, when what she needs is to name the bleary, thundering tangle of her mind. She tries to take a breath; blood roars in her ears. "I would have _never—_ " she wails, and finds herself wringing her hands, like a stage player. "J'hani."  
  


"I think we should go home."  
  


"Am I making a scene?" She wipes at her eyes with the backs of her hands. "Am I embarrassing you?"  
  


"Gem, stop it. Let's go home. I'll make tea, and—"  
  


"Walk to Oblivion, you and your tea."

* * *

Next to no one visits a tavern on a Morndas afternoon. Tillari takes a seat beside her and pours comberry wine into her finest glasses—volcanic crystal. Relvasi is at the bar, just in case.  
  


"Shouldn't you be working?" smirks Tillari, putting a large hand on Gemile's arm.   
  


"Took the morning off. We—had to go and speak to the Count's steward."  
  


Tillari wrinkles her nose. "Real sorry for you."  
  


"Yeah. Well. We're not doing well," she mumbles, her eyes filling with tears.  
  


"Hey," says Tillari softly. "Polydor's not with you?"  
  


"We had a row," says Gemile, and takes a dry, sobbing breath. The ache in her wrist is worse every hour. "Quaspus—you know how she is—she has a go at my family, and I was. . .I had this. . ." She gestures. "I felt so horrible, I couldn't sit there anymore. So I moved, I got up, and I suppose. . ."  
  


"Yeah?"   
  


"I suppose J'hani thought I was going to do something stupid—and he  _ grabs _ me and pulls me back. I told him I was fine, but he wouldn't let go, and he—walks us out like that, just grabbing onto my arm— _ hard, _ as well! He's never done that."  
  


"Ah." Tillari inhales deeply, and sighs, if possible, even more deeply. "Not too sporting."  
  


" _ No! _ He knows he's stronger than I am! In front of Quaspus, and the court—" Gemile takes a sip of wine, and adds, in a very small voice, "It hurts, Tillari. My wrist."  
  


"We can fix that," promises Tillari, standing. "I should say," she mumbles, "that kind of shit is beneath him. Yanking your woman around like a paper doll. . ."  
  


"I suppose I understand why he stopped me, but I just hate that he had to keep doing it all the way outside. Just—just—what—did he think I was going to have a fight with the guards? Does he think I'm completely mad?"  
  


"I had one once who did it to get back at me," chirps Relvasi from behind the counter, as Tillari disappears into the broom closet. "We'd fight in private, and then when we were out he'd smack me around a bit, or call me names. Bastard."  
  


Gemile clears her throat. "I—I'm sorry."  
  


"No, don't be. Tillari saw us once and, once she'd caught the ash on the wind, she beat the sweet love of the Ancestors out of him. See how he liked it."  
  


"Oh. Did you start. . .is that how—?"  
  


"Oh, no. It took years and years. We were friends first and foremost." Relvasi smiles to herself. "I think that's the only way to do it right."  
  


"Gossiping about me?" grins Tillari, returning with an armful of bandages and salves. "Rel?"  
  


"I've got it!" Relvasi hurries over to the table, plucking several things from Tillari's arms before they can tumble off the pile. "I'm afraid we're not much for healing, but we'll take a look. Can I?" She reaches out—her pale hands are decorated with long black nails—but makes a point not to touch Gemile until she gives the word.  
  


"Yes, please," says Gemile gratefully.   
  


Relvasi nods and takes Gemile's hand in hers, moving it gently this way and that until it starts to hurt, checking for swelling. "I think," she says at last, "it's just nastily bruised. You might have a sprain, at the worst. You didn't feel—or maybe hear a 'crack'?"  
  


"No, it just feels stiff."  
  


"I'm not surprised. We can splint it, if you like. You don't need one, strictly speaking, but it might make doing things with that hand easier."  
  


"OK."  
  


While Relvasi wraps her wrist, splinting it with a strip of something thin and firm—treated bark?—Tillari digs through her things, and eventually comes up holding something light green and grainy in a linen pouch. "You can put this in tea or coffee or whatever if you start to really hurt."  
  


Gemile gives her a sheepish little smile, feeling like a child asking her mother for more syrup. "Could I take a bit of it now?"  
  


"I'll mix something up," Tillari smiles back. "Stay for a while."  
  


"I think I will."

* * *

Heart pounding, Gemile stands on her own doorstep. Talin's dagger of Stahlrim is tied at her waist again, for the first time in years.  
  


"Gem," sighs J'hani. "Where were you?"  
  


"I went to the Cornerclub,” she says. “And then I paid the Count a visit."  
  


"You—what?"  
  


"I bought my dagger back. For twenty thousand."  
  


J'hani shakes his head. He seems ready to close the door in her face, so she pushes past him.   
  


"I wanted to have it before we have to leave," she continues. "It's my money, I'll put it where I want."  
  


". . .you chose a very expensive revenge, Gem."  
  


"No. I just wanted to have it."  
  


"As you like," says J'hani hotly, "but in case you haven't noticed, we don't have the luxury of throwing away gold."  
  


"I have plenty left over."  
  


"Is your hand bandaged?"  
  


Gemile shifts. "Tillari did it for me."  
  


"That—" His breath catches. "I didn't do that, did I?"  
  


"It's fine."  
  


J'hani starts to touch her arm—she moves away. "Gemile," he says, in a wavering voice, "please let me see."  
  


"There's nothing to see," she says, but she allows him to take her hand in his.  
  


Lightly, J'hani presses his lips to the back of her hand. "I—" He swallows. "Gem. I'm so sorry."  
  


"You can't pull me every which way like a doll," says Gemile, half-stealing Tillari's phrase. "Well—you can. You're strong enough."  
  


"Gem—"  
  


"I love you. If you do anything like this again, I'm going to leave."   
  


He takes her in his arms—they find a wall and sink to the floor together, and he buries his face in her shoulder.  
  


After an eternity, Gemile looks up, blinking the fog out of her eyes. The oil lamp is fading. "Come on. I want to sleep."  
  


"But the—"  
  


"In the morning. I'm so tired. I just want to sleep." She crouches and pushes off the floor with her hands—her wrist pangs, and she breathes in sharply. J'hani winces. "Did you end up making tea?"  
  


"Yes."  
  


Gemile ambles into the kitchen and pours herself a cup from the charmed teapot, letting the steam gather on her chin and her lips. She empties a little of Tillari's green stuff into it, carries the cup upstairs, and sets it on her nightstand. "J'hani," she whispers, sitting on the foot of the bed.  
  


J'hani watches her closely, trying to read her. Something terribly sad passes over his expression. "Do you want me to stay downstairs?"  
  


"Just for tonight."  
  


"All right," he says, retreating slowly to the doorway. "Until tomorrow,  _ ahziss khunu'tu. _ "  
  


"Good night."   
  


Gemile doesn't bother to undress, or even to brush her teeth—her body is so heavy. She lies alone in the wide bed and draws the blankets around her.

* * *

"Gem?" someone says.  
  


Gemile cracks one eye.  
  


It's like she's looking into the endless sky on a clear day. For ever and ever, nothing but blue. She turns her head; no sign of a bed, or her room, or even a surface she might be lying on right now.  
  


"Don't think about it too much, my darling. You're still asleep, sort of."  
  


Gemile looks straight up and squints. A shadow appears there, congealing, forcing the sunlight to find a way around it. Her breath stops.  
  


"Hello," grins Ria, her hair a gold ring about her. "It's been  _ ages! _ "  
  


"I—Ria?"  
  


"No, it's bloody Bendu Olo. Keep up, Gem."  
  


"Well, I—I don't get—" Gemile sighs. "I don't get visited in my dreams all that bloody often."  
  


A slow smile comes to Ria's lips. "You are tonight."  
  


"How are you  _ here? _ "  
  


"Well, miss Gemile, do you want to guess what our Talin did today?"  
  


"Talin?" Her mouth forms shapes as she thinks. "He hasn't. . .done in Tharn?"  
  


"Only he has, Gem! He's brought back Uriel and General Warhaft—the news is going to break to all Cyrodiil tomorrow!" Ria plays with a strand of her hair. "And, since he and I have said our last goodbye, you've got me all to yourself, darling."  
  


"He said. . .Talin told me he was the only one you could visit."  
  


"Ah. Well—technicality. At the time, that was pretty much true, but now—well, it doesn't matter how much magic I use, does it?"  
  


"So," Gemile half-whispers, feeling her heart sink, "you're going to disappear after this, then?"  
  


"Oh, 'disappear'. Pfft. I'm going to. . .fly up to be with the gods and—wear linen and—sing in choirs and all that lark, right? I don't know. I honestly don't know, but I'm so,  _ so _ sick of sticking around here. Anyway." Ria folds her jewelled hands beneath her chin, blue eyes glittering. "How was your day?"  
  


"Are you being serious?" She grins.  
  


" _ Yes, _ I'm being serious. Do you know how  _ incredibly _ tiresome it is to  _ only _ ever talk about quests and magic artifacts and life-or-death and dangerous beyond your wildest dreams and fate of the world and. . .ugh. No, really. How was your day, love?"  
  


"A bit shit, since you asked. Our shop is getting closed down—of course, we'd seen it coming—but we're getting kicked out of Cheydinhal, and J'hani—" Gemile takes a deep breath. "J'hani and I had a row about it." She holds up her hand, noting with mild surprise that the bandage is still on it.  
  


Ria takes Gemile’s hand in hers, and her touch, even in a dream, is as electric and as frightening as it ever was. "That wasn't his doing, was it?" Ria flares. "If it was, you need to tell me now, so I can use my last gasps to put a curse on him."  
  


"Can you do that?"  
  


"No. I mean, not really."  
  


Gemile rolls her eyes. "Well. Good. We talked about it. It was an accident."  
  


"Mm-hm," says Ria disdainfully. "And he was such a nice boy. . ."  
  


"He still is! Just—it's been difficult."  
  


"Did you know you had a grey hair, my darling?"  
  


"What?" She grabs a handful of hair and tries to sift through it, but the sun is so blinding.  
  


"Made you look." Ria laughs her high, ringing laugh. "You're so beautiful now."  
  


"I wasn't beautiful before?" asks Gemile.  
  


"You were a girl before."  
  


". . .D'you. . ." Gemile bites the inside of her cheek. "D'you ever think what might have happened if we'd run off together with Tinus?"  
  


"Ha. I don't have anything to do out here  _ except _ think." Ria taps her perfect blue fingernail to her lip. "Why?"  
  


"I think about it sometimes. I love J'hani, but I think—I think I could have loved you, too. I think we'd have been good together."  
  


"Wouldn't we just?"  
  


"And you—you'd be alive, Silmane—"  
  


"Save the water for the flowers," grins Ria, laying her hand on Gemile's cheek and brushing away the tears with her thumb. "What's done is done, Gem. I'm all right with it. You’ll come around."  
  


"No, I won't."  
  


"Yes, you will. I know something that'll cheer you up, darling, but you have to pay close attention."  
  


"What—"   
  


Gemile's vision darkens. As though peering through a filthy window, she sees the inside of a house. Sitting on the bottom stair, with his legs flung out before him, is a young man—Valens, she nearly thinks, to look at his broad build. But he's not Valens, he's smaller and darker, with a long mop of black hair and, when he turns his head, blue eyes like ice chips.  
  


Ria reappears—when she speaks, her voice sounds distant. "Gem, did you see? He's your spitting image! Still!"  
  


"W-was that him?" asks Gemile shakily.  
  


"Yeah! Isn't he handsome? He doesn't half look like you. Except for his eyes."  
  


"Can you tell me where he is? Or—who he's with, or—?"  
  


Slowly, Ria shakes her head. "I think that's all I had in me, darling."  
  


"Wait—"  
  


"Good luck, though, Gem. I love you, and I hope your life is wonderful, and I hope it's a very long time before I see you again."  
  


"Ria, I can't. I can't, I can't, Ria—"  
  


"'Course you can. Come on. Take my hand and. . .just. . .blink."  
  


Gemile takes a deep breath. "I love you," she says, and lays her hand in Ria's.  
  


She wakes, gasping, alone in bed. She tears at the bandage on her arm—won't come off—feels on the floor for Talin's dagger, closes her hand around it and thrusts it beneath the cotton wraps and slices. She drops the blade. She prods her wrist everywhere and bends it in every possible direction, searching for a tender spot. Nothing hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gemile and J'hani meet with the steward of County Cheydinhal, Suria Quaspus, who informs them that their business isn't turning a satisfactory profit, and is being terminated as a result. She asks that they leave the city. Distressed, Gemile jumps to her feet, and J'hani pulls her away, inadvertently bruising her wrist. They argue, and Gemile spends the afternoon in the Cornerclub with Tillari and her wife, Relvasi. Before returning home, she buys back Talin's Stahlrim dagger from Count Cheydinhal for 20,000 septims. She and J'hani make up, tentatively, but Gemile asks him to stay downstairs for the night. 
> 
> In her dream that night, Gemile is visited by Ria Silmane, who explains that Talin has finally killed Jagar Tharn, and that she's free to go on to Aetherius (or wherever she's going) - but she wanted to see Gemile first. When Gemile wakes up, her wrist is healed.


	44. 3E 400, Sun's Dawn 16

What is it about Bravil that irks her so much? It's not the sticky air (even in winter!), nor the insects. Gold Leaf had those in spades. It's not even the sewery smell of poorly maintained canals. Well, it's a little bit the smell. But—  
  


The bell mounted over the tavern door rings. Gemile cranes her neck, but it's just a gaggle of young women out for the night. Immediately— _ immediately _ —they're besieged by a wave of whistles and jeers. They take a seat anyway.  
  


Two things, Gemile decides, make her resent the city. One, the fact that she's not in this pit by choice: it's either here, or moving back in with her parents. Second, the complete fucking lack of a decent place in which to drink.  
  


When she turns her back to the doorway again, someone is in the chair opposite hers. She jumps. "Er, hello?"  
  


"Oh, my heart leaps to feel the love of my sister again."  
  


"What—Tati?" Gemile rises, fully knocking over her table as she moves to embrace him.  
  


"Careful!" chides Tatianus, in spite of his own laughter. He smooths her hair over her shoulder. Gemile shudders when his fingers touch her neck.  
  


"You're—absolutely—cold as death," she says, and takes his hand to appraise it. Ice. "Are you ill? You shouldn't be anywhere near this cold. Wait." Gemile walks up to the bar. It takes a while for the publican to see her in the gloom. "I'd like an oil lamp."  
  


"It'll cost."  
  


"That's fine." She taps her fingers on the counter until the old man reappears with the lamp swinging from his curled hand.  
  


"Here." Gemile sets down the flickering lamp on their table, which Tatianus has set upright again. "Have to  _ ask _ for light in this pigsty. This way we can at least sort of. . .see. . .each other. Tatianus."  
  


He clears his throat. "Gemile."  
  


"You—you really, truly, honestly look—dead. You're grey as a corpse."  
  


"Well!" huffs Tatianus, trying at a sad joke.  
  


"Fucking Arkay, have you taken a wasting disease? That's why you came here, is it? You—"  
  


"Be calm. I'm fine. Well—'fine'—" He chuckles, humourlessly, to himself. "Buy me a drink."  
  


So she does. The Lonely Suitor doesn't stock anything from the local vineyards, but they have a wide variety of suspicious-sounding beverages.  
  


"Argonian bloodwine," shrugs Gemile, setting down a bottle; thick green glass, too dull to see the contents, especially in the firelight.   
  


Tatianus snorts.   
  


She pours, they toast and, cautiously, Gemile takes a tiny sip. "Oh," she says, frowning, and takes a bigger sip. "It's not bad. Sort of fruity, but then with a sort of sharpness."  
  


"No blood," notes Tatianus.  
  


"How would you know? There's enough sweet to cover it up."  
  


"You—you know I meant to wish you a happy birthday. It's a bit belated, but, ah. . ." He digs around in his waistcoat.   
  


Waistcoat. "That's not the sort of outfit they wear in Valenwood, is it?"  
  


"What? Oh—no," mumbles Tatianus, coaxing wrinkles out of his shirt with the flat of his hand. "I suppose not." He draws a fine golden chain from his breast pocket, set with a small, brilliant ruby.  _ "Natalis laetus. _ A bit belated, but all the same."  
  


It's Ria's birthday today. Gemile holds her tongue. "Thank you," she says, taking the necklace with a wry smile. "And pray, can you tell me how old I am?"  
  


"Oh—mercy under the eyes—well. . .it's—" He leans his chin on his hand and stares into the lamplight with a strange intensity. As his face approaches the flame, the light catches his eyes—which change, themselves becoming as red as rubies.  
  


Gemile reels. "Er, you can breathe. I was only trying to get on your nerves."  
  


"Well, so you have." Tatianus sighs his defeat. "What—what year is it?"  
  


"Are you serious?"  
  


"Unfortunately."  
  


She raises her eyebrows. "It is, er, the four-hundredth year of the third era of Akatosh."  
  


"Oh, well, then—sixty-six—you're thirty-four!" he blurts, relieved.  
  


"Your eyes are red," Gemile blurts back.  
  


"What?"  
  


"Your eyes are  _ red _ and you're  _ cold _ and you honestly can't tell me what  _ year _ it is—what's wrong with you? What's happened?" Her voice starts to flag. "And you're not dressed for Valenwood and your hair is different and you look  _ so _ ill! Did you go off somewhere and get sick? And then why ask for  _ me? _ If anyone could deal with that, it—it—"  
  


"Gemile," he says, and takes her hands, and he's so cold she startles and knocks the lamp clear off the table.   
  


Tatianus dives for it—pounces, at that—scoops it up, and sets it back as though he's spent the last ten years doing nothing but catching lamps.  
  


Gemile runs outside, suddenly parched for fresh air. The sun is just setting, the sky is shot through with orange and pink.  
  


"So, er, I need to tell you something," says Tatianus, having appeared out of nowhere again.  
  


She studies him. Against the backdrop of Bravil, he cuts an even stranger figure in his immaculate blouse, dark trousers and leather shoes so lovingly detailed, they must have cost a small fortune. He's always kept his hair short, but now it falls past his shoulders in a black, glossy sheet. In the light of day, he looks like himself, perfectly healthy, even, and  _ young. _ He could be her age. "Go on, then."  
  


"Well." Tatianus coughs and fiddles with his cloak. "I'm not at all dressed for Valenwood, because I didn't come here from Valenwood. I—"  
  


"Did you and Nadi move?"  
  


He pauses. " _ I _ moved—circumstances—fuck it," he decides. "Gem, er—Divines. Five—thirty-six—ninety. . .I was about your age, come to think. Nadinandriah and I were very happy in Falinesti for a while, but—something happened that I hadn't foreseen, I suppose, and I. . .contracted a strange illness. . .which—Nadi thought I'd taken a fever, bless her for ever. I. . .hadn't. Actually what I'd caught was, er, vam—vampirism."  
  


"Vampirism," repeats Gemile.  
  


"I found out much later that I'm technically a part of a Bosmer bloodline now—that is—Bonsamu," sputters Tatianus, his eyes darting from side to side in a constant vigil. "No one I spoke to had ever seen an Imperial with my particular. . .shade of the condition."  
  


"Tati."  
  


"I  _ had _ been warned about, ah, candles and lamps. . .I'm told it's not an attractive light for me. So. Sorry."  
  


Gemile feels behind her for the wall of the tavern, and sinks to the cobblestone with her back against it. "Did Nadi leave you?" she asks faintly, as he comes down beside her.  
  


"Hm," replies Tatianus, and follows it with nothing. "I—" he begins, and Gemile, light-headed, snaps to attention again, "she offered to help me. Apparently her family has a history, specifically, with the Bonsamu."  
  


"And?"  
  


". . .I refused.  _ Ow! _ " he cries, when she thumps him with all her might. "Gem!"  
  


"You stupid fucking toad, Marcianus! You—you—you  _ happened  _ to be with someone who knew the cure—and you pissed it away!  _ Why? _ "  
  


"It was hardly as simple as all that," says Tatianus hotly. "I—I did think about it, but I—" He falters. "Did you know that if you become a vampire, and you cure yourself, you can never be infected again?"  
  


"Is that a  _ downside _ to you? I could—"  
  


"Gemile—"  
  


"—report you to the guards this instant, and they'd skewer you just here on the cobbles!"  
  


"I'm not so certain," says Tatianus miserably.  
  


"D'you—” She splutters. “How can you be all right with being—"  
  


"I'm going to cure myself. I know how. I just. . .I'm just going to enjoy the extra time."  
  


"Have you been murdering people?" Gemile whispers.  
  


"I—no! No. No."  
  


"You should go back to wherever you came from, and stay with your vampire friends until you come to your fucking senses. I—" She stands. "I can't believe you. I'm going home."  
  


"Don't tell Papa," begs Tatianus. "It'll kill him."  
  


"I won't," she promises, feeling the fire go out of her. "You know I hate this. I don't want this."  
  


"I'm sorry to have put it on you, I—I expected you'd be the only one who would have heard me out this far."  
  


"Lavinia would."  
  


Tatianus scoffs.  
  


"She would," says Gemile quietly. "She misses you."  
  


"Oh."  
  


"She's at the mages' college now, in the Imperial City."  
  


"Like she wanted,” says Tatianus, smiling halfheartedly.  
  


"I think you're a Sload’s arse," she says, "but I worry that, if I tell you to go, I won't see you again."  
  


He has no answer to that. He tucks his hair behind his ear.  
  


"Come home with me. We'll have dinner. J'hani's making lentils."  
  


"Ah. You don't think he’ll—?"  
  


"No,” Gemile cuts in, “I don't.”   
  


"—all right, then. All right."


	45. 3E 401, Rain's Hand 13 (!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild warning for body image talk and (vague) references to sexual abuse

"I should buy you a new one of those," says Gemile, shuffling up to the end of the bed. "It's ratty."  
  


J'hani turns from the mirror and beams at her, flourishing his hand with the fading sea silk handkerchief tied at his wrist. "You can buy me another, but I will always keep this one."  
  


"Sop."  
  


"'Sop'?" He laughs and settles down beside her. "What are you wearing around your neck?"  
  


"The—" Gemile touches her breastbone, feeling for the tiny warm stone of her amulet of Arkay. "This is for worship!" she insists, frowning a melodramatic frown at him.  
  


"And this?" J'hani passes his index finger beneath the thaali around her neck and lifts it. "I'm not familiar with this god?"  
  


"Well— _ well, _ " she smiles, "you know, in Gold Leaf, the tradition is that as long as I keep wearing this, you'll keep your good health."  
  


"Oh, it's for my benefit."  
  


"Exactly."  
  


"Please excuse my ignorance," he says.  
  


"Mm-hm."  
  


He takes her hand and passes his thumb over her engagement ring; its gemstone is red as Jode. "Sop," he concludes.  
  


"Ugh," she groans, as he falls victoriously into her lap. "Fine. Last laugh's yours, but I need to get dressed."  
  


"Do you?" He sits up, though, to let her stand.  
  


"Unless you want to be late." Gemile rises and picks a dress out of the corner of her trunk, unrolls it and regards herself in the mirror—a narrow clear thing, which gives her back perhaps a sharper image than she wanted.  She is flatter now and puffier, like a deflating balloon, and the scar slicing her midsection has only gotten angrier with time. J'hani is watching her. She opens her mouth. She closes her mouth and slips the dress over her head.  
  


"I. . ." She has no idea how to ask the question she wants to ask. "Will you lace up my bodice thing?"  
  


"Of course," says J'hani, and comes to stand behind her.  
  


Gemile bites her lip and moves her hair out of the way. "J'hani, are you—are you—do you—"   
  


"Hm?"  
  


"Do you—er," she says, and gives up. "D'you want to eat here? Or shall we find a place on the way?"  
  


She can  _ feel _ his raised eyebrow, can hear it. ". . .I'd rather find a place, Gem. I don't know that I trust the food here."  
  


"All right."  
  


The 'place', in the end, is a market stall in the shadow of the White-Gold Tower, whose sole trick is a great bread roll with a cold salted side of meat inside. Gemile hardly touches hers.   
  


Just before noon, they find the Temple district—Talin's house is a stone mansion, nestled against the wall closest to the Palace. It must be at least three stories tall, and twin tapestries flutter on either side of the double doors, marked with the Emperor's heraldry.  
  


"There is nothing too good for the Eternal Champion, I suppose," concludes J'hani, lifting his hand to the polished door. Gemile comes to stand beside him.  
  


As soon as he knocks, children's voices clamour inside, and—rather than Talin—a beaming Redguard woman stands in the doorway, wrapped in far too many clothes for the balmy spring of the Imperial City. "Hello!" she chirps. "Please come in! My name is Umayra," she adds, shepherding them through the corridor and into the sprawling living room.  
  


"Gemile," says Gemile, when she can turn around and look Umayra in the face. She holds out her hand.  
  


Umayra takes it, looking slightly puzzled. "I know.  _ Sen batek _ —Talin—talks of you."  
  


"My name is J'hani," offers J'hani.  
  


"I know," repeats Umayra, taking his hand with the same inscrutable smile.  
  


Two identical children—both in fine clothes, both scrawny and both with the same mop of curly hair—sit on the sofa, arguing back and forth in rapid Yoku.  
  


_ "Sogat duad," _ says Umayra firmly.  
  


One of the children pulls their knees up to their chest.  _ "Dogo uhi dui!"  
  
_

Umayra sighs. "I will find Talin." To the children she says:  _ "Mo fekti."  
  
_

As the twins sit in silence, one of them glowers—glowers at the wide world, which happens now to include Gemile and J'hani.  
  


J'hani steps forward. "Hello."  
  


"Who are you?" asks the glowerer.  
  


Gemile snorts, and the glower of the little glowerer turns on her instead.  
  


Talin appears from one of many side rooms and grins to see them. His hair is longer now, pulled back into a bun, several silver scars cross his face, and he has the beginnings of crow's feet when he smiles. He hugs Gemile first, and then J'hani. "Long time," he says at last.  
  


"We were just introducing ourselves," says Gemile.  
  


"My name is J'hani," begins J'hani, kneeling before the sofa like a petitioner, "and this is my wife, Gemile—we're friends of your father's."  
  


"Oh," says the child.  
  


"So introduce yourself, water drop," laughs Talin, dropping onto the sofa next to the glowerer. "This is Neneldi. She's named after—can you tell 'em?"  
  


"Priestess I think. It means water."  
  


"That's very pretty," says Gemile politely, but Neneldi only glowers.  
  


"And my son," says Talin, reaching over to tap the other child gently on the shoulder,  _ "go e danye, sen sen? Den dua?"  
  
_

_ "Sen Orpheus," _ mumbles the little boy, watching them with big, distrustful eyes. Grey.  
  


"Doesn't speak a word of Cyrodilic yet, my poor boy."  
  


"I do," says Neneldi, looking with disdain at her brother. "But I'm ol—but I'm older, so it's obvious."  
  


Talin looks her in the eye. "What did we say, Nen?  _ Tro trang, dui dua. _ "  
  


Neneldi only crosses her arms.  
  


Gemile smiles. "I like the sound of that."  
  


"Gem is going to speak Yoku by the time we leave today," teases J’hani.  
  


"'Act with true good, uh, towards those that are yours." Talin clears his throat and glances at Neneldi, who shrugs. "That's the spirit of it, anyway, May says it much nicer than me."  
  


Descending footsteps sound from the second floor. Umayra emerges, wobbling, with two chairs in hand, each bound with leather and studded around the frame. Talin stands and rushes to take them from her. He sets them down just opposite the sofa.  
  


"Thank you," smiles Gemile, and takes a seat. "Don't you have guests often? I thought there'd be people in droves wanting to see the Eternal Champion."  
  


"Do I want to see  _ them _ is the question." Talin sighs and throws his arm over the back of the sofa. "Come sit, May."  
  


"I'm going to the kitchen—to—" Umayra havers, fiddling with her long plaits.  _ "Na napere hawwa?"  
  
_

"Bit early—what s'you?"  
  


"No," insists Umayra, gesturing a big round object. " _ Ansu hadimong _ —needs time."  
  


"OK. Big chunks of meat," clarifies Talin. "Got to go on now to simmer, I guess."  
  


"Can I help?" asks J'hani, half-rising.   
  


"No, no, no," frets Umayra, "please, sit." She thinks for a moment.  _ "Orpheus. Ueti," _ she says, and the little boy turns his head.  _ "Wutra tang-uhi?"  
  
_

_ "Ma'," _ mumbles Orpheus, clambering down from the sofa and scurrying into the kitchen after his mother.  
  


"Are their names Yoku?" asks Gemile.  
  


"I'm here," says Neneldi irritably.  
  


"Excuse me. Are your and your brother's names Yoku?"  
  


Neneldi thinks on that, and doesn't seem to find the answer. Reluctantly, she looks up at her father, who grins. "No," he supplies. "May picked them. They're, uh, Ayleid."  
  


"Mine means water, and it's a priestess," reiterates Neneldi quickly.  
  


"Mhm. 'Orpheus' is from. . ." Talin frowns. "O-hir-nish. Some elf bloke. Musician. May likes history."  
  


"Hm," says Gemile, resolving to put her question to Umayra later.  
  


"Do you remember what it was like in Hammerfell, Neneldi?" J'hani asks.  
  


Neneldi frowns. "Hot. And my mum was nicer."  
  


"She—" Gemile shifts, uncomfortably. "She seems very nice now."  
  


"There's better books here," continues Neneldi, "but there were more magic people in my mum's coven."  
  


"Coven?" J'hani repeats.  
  


"C-O-V-E-N," spells Neneldi, as Talin makes frantic gestures of 'don't ask'.  
  


"That's—very impressive," J'hani assures her.  
  


The meat settled, Umayra and Orpheus return to the living room. Orpheus surveys the scene, seems to think very hard about the problem, and then offers his mother the last place on the sofa. Umayra laughs and takes him onto her lap.  
  


_ "Den dua?" _ Gemile smiles at him. Orpheus has to take a moment to piece together what she's trying to say before responding in a whisper of a whisper. He looks up at his mother for a translation.  
  


"He is well, he thinks," Umayra grins.  
  


"I'm glad," says Gemile.  
  


_ "Dogo wai," _ repeats Umayra. Orpheus catches Gemile's eye for half a second—she smiles tightly—he looks away again.  
  


"I've been so curious," says Gemile, as J'hani sidles his chair closer to Talin and they fall into their own conversation, "how did you and Talin meet?"  
  


"How," ponders Umayra. "My home is in Antiphyllos."  
  


"The city's Antyphyllos with a—Y—" adds Neneldi, "and it's, the cow-ty is Antiphyllos with a I."  
  


"County," says Gemile gently.  
  


"I knew him as Trygve then," Umayra goes on. "I found only his real name when he came back to me."  
  


"So—you h—" Gemile indicates the children with a glance. "All without—?"  
  


"I understand why," says Umayra, although her voice is slow and fraught. "He came to us for help, eight years ago. Our—" she pauses, turns to Neneldi, and asks  _ "tengailak?"  
  
_

"See-ers?" responds Neneldi in an equally tentative tone.  
  


"Seers. Saw where he is going. It was a dangerous place. So, we helped him."  
  


"Did he say what he was after?" Gemile asks.  
  


"Only to me."  
  


"And. . .did you believe him?"  
  


She laughs. "No."  
  


Feeling as though she's skirting something deeply unpleasant, Gemile turns to Neneldi. "Have you and your brother started school yet?"  
  


"I have. I'm doing maths and history— _ he's _ still doing mee-dial Cyrodilic."  
  


"Remedial?"  
  


"S'pose," mutters Neneldi.  
  


"You know, I have a little brother—he's not so little now, but when he was  _ really _ little, he had to have remedial Cyrodilic lessons too."  
  


Neneldi watches her with a dubiously interested half-scowl.  
  


"We found out," continues Gemile, "that he was really quite good at it, he was just very shy about practicing, because he was afraid we'd laugh at him."  
  


" _ I _ laugh at him," snickers Neneldi.  
  


"Do you?"  
  


"Yeah—it's funny."  
  


"Your brother might not think so." Gemile looks at Orpheus, who is watching her back with his grey, bright eyes. "Hello, Orpheus."  
  


Orpheus takes a deep breath, casts a glance at his sister, manages "'lo", and then dives for sanctuary beneath his mother's shawl.  
  


Neneldi opens her mouth—Gemile gives her a warning look. "See," she says in her own defence. "It's funny."  
  


Umayra chastises her in low, swift Yoku and, flushing, she crosses her arms tighter than ever  
  


"I think your brother would be very pleased if you helped him a little," says Gemile in the tone she used to set aside for Valens. "He looks up to you, I think."  
  


"I  _ am _ an hour older," says Neneldi.  
  


"Well, there you go," agrees Gemile, swallowing a smile. "Orpheus?" The little boy perks up at the mention of his name. Umayra has taken off the shawl and wrapped it around him—he seems to luxuriate like a miniature king. "Can you tell me what colour my dress is?"  
  


He pauses for a moment, reddening. Neneldi rolls her eyes and starts to say:  _ "Dan g'y—"  
  
_

_ "Trai," _ says Orpheus impatiently. " _ Lo _ —reem."  
  


"Sorry?"  
  


". . .reen," he mumbles.  
  


"Green," confirms Gemile, beaming by turns at him, Neneldi and Umayra.  
  


For the rest of the afternoon, she enlists Neneldi to help her brother find his feet in Cyrodilic—also she participates in a terribly heated game of blind man's buff, and herself learns a handful of Yoku words from Umayra. Talin and J'hani, for their part, seem perfectly content to sit in their nook and catch up.  
  


Dinner, as promised, involves big chunks of meat, so tender they slough from the bone, as well as a kind of spiced bread pudding and fried green beans. Afterward—as the six of them wrestle with the sofa for a place—Umayra brings down a great upright instrument with two strings.  
  


"Rabab," she explains, and plays a long, soft dirge that seems to stick to the air, making it heavy and pensive. Orpheus has crawled into Gemile's lap and sways now, spellbound, his mouth half-open. Gemile looks to her side and grins to see J'hani wearing the exact same expression. Talin, and Neneldi in his lap, are trying and failing to look half as riveted.  
  


"Sing with me," says Umayra after a long while, holding out a hand to Neneldi. Sighing, Neneldi rolls off the sofa and stands beside her mother, resting a lazy hand on the back of Umayra's chair. Umayra plays a note and holds it, hums a different note over it, and Neneldi sings a third note. Umayra strikes up the lamentatious tune again, this time spanning it with the hoarse gauze of her voice. Neneldi rolls her eyes, opens her mouth and harmonises with her—and her voice is pure beyond belief, strong, agile and perfectly controlled, as fine as any performer in the Emperor's court. J'hani lets out a small, stunned laugh.  
  


"Where," blurts Gemile when Umayra stands to put away the rabab, "did you learn to sing?"  
  


"It's easy," shrugs Neneldi. "You just do it."  
  


"You don't mean to say that you've never taken lessons?" asks J'hani.  
  


"No," says Neneldi, shrugging again, although a pleased smile breaks her nonchalant bearing.   
  


"Nen," coaxes Talin.  
  


Neneldi sighs. "I had to sit with some old lady with a piano and say what every note was called. But I quit that cos it was stupid cos it wasn't singing, just names."  
  


"Theory can be boring," agrees J'hani, grinning. "My apologies, in that case, but can you tell me what mode that song was in?"  
  


"There's no modes in it," says Neneldi, as though the idea was ridiculous. "It goes funny because it goes between the notes."  
  


"Don't you have trouble finding the melody, then? Singing the right notes."  
  


"No. Madam Andulus says I have a perfect ear."  
  


"Wow. And do you know any Cyrodilic songs?"  
  


Neneldi heaves a terribly put-upon sigh and gives him a short, marvellous rendition of a hymn to Akatosh—an Imperial melody, with Old Cyrodilic text. "Mode of the Heartland," she adds, "from the tone of ge."  
  


"That is exactly right," says J'hani, with an edge of disbelief.  
  


"Are you a musician?" Gemile asks Orpheus, as Umayra sits down and he clambers into his mother's lap again.  
  


"No," mumbles Orpheus.  
  


"He loves it to pieces, loves listening," says Talin. "He's taken lessons all his life." Hesitating, he asks, "D'you want to sing something, Orph?", repeating his question in Yoku for good measure.  
  


Orpheus leaps down, clears his throat and immediately tumbles into what. . .might be another hymn, although discerning any melody at all is difficult. His voice is clear, and loud enough, but—like Valens—he can't carry a tune to save his life.  
  


Gemile claps politely when he dips an enthusiastic bow. "That was wonderful," she says, and thank the gods, Neneldi does not comment. For the next hour or so, Neneldi lays claim to J'hani's attention, so Gemile chats with Talin and Umayra about their time in Hammerfell—about the whole grand quest—about Ria. Talin's eyes flash when he hears her name, and he promises to explain later.  
  


Eventually, Umayra ushers the children upstairs (but not before Gemile and J'hani have each given their word to visit again), and Talin darts into the kitchen, bearing two bright bottles of blown glass.   
  


"May we have some glasses? Or will we pass around the bottle?" asks J'hani, rising already.  
  


Talin grins at him, pops the bottle of white with his thumb, and takes a great gulp.  
  


J'hani sighs and disappears into the kitchen.  
  


Putting up his feet on one of the leather chairs, Talin watches him leave with a fading smile, and then he meets Gemile's gaze and his eyes widen a little. "Mm," he says, and swallows the wine, "should get you something."  
  


"Oh?"  
  


"You'll want to see it. Half a blink." Talin crosses the large living room and opens a shallow broom closet. He sits down again and holds a little blue bundle out to her. A scarf. "It's. . .the last of, uh—Ria's stuff."  
  


"Oh," says Gemile, and starts to unpick the knotted scarf. "Was this. . .did you pick this up from. . ."  
  


"She asked me to," says Talin quickly. "I kept it with me all the while. Feels weird parting with it now, but it's yours."  
  


"Oh. I h—" she begins, remembering the Stahlrim knife in her sash, "—one moment," she trails off, having freed the scarf of its knot. When she lays it out in her lap, several rings with large, gleaming stones appear, as well as a gathering of dried reagents and a small worn pouch that appears to have been stitched and re-stitched numerous times along the same tear. She fiddles with the strings and a sweet, sharp scent assails her.  
  


"What is it?" asks Talin, standing to take a couple of glasses from J'hani and set them down.   
  


J'hani cocks his head, looking between Gemile and her strange blue array of trifles. "What is what?"   
  


"Stuff Ria used to make for me—when I f—when—" Gemile sighs shakily. Stupid. How long has it been? J'hani sinks onto the sofa next to her and brushes her hair behind her ear. "I used to have trouble sleeping."  
  


"'Cos of the baby?"  
  


_ "No," _ says Gemile, feeling her jaw work fruitlessly as she wills Talin just to  _ get it. _ It feels dire even to say the name 'Uriel' here, within the grasp of his arm. "That too, but no. I—" She allows herself a self-conscious smile. "She'd give me these little things. She never asked for the bag back after. I wondered where she kept getting them from."  
  


"Made them herself," says Talin confidently, thumbing the poorly-stitched seam on the pouch. "Can tell by the craftsmanship." He chuckles. "Useless little thing."  
  


"She'd always tell me she made them small, because then I’d have to come back more often and she’d get to see me."  
  


Talin lets his head fall into the back of the sofa and stares up at the ceiling, a crooked smile playing on his lips.  
  


"I have something for you, too," says Gemile, producing the knife. "Do you remember this?"  
  


"Hm." Talin looks down again and takes it, twirling it in his hand. "This the same one I swiped from my Pa?"  
  


"The very same."  
  


"Was a gift," he shrugs.  
  


"Well, the circumstances are different," she says. "I thought you'd want something of your father's."  
  


Talin laughs. "I have quite enough of my father's. Got his personal effects after I came back to the palace, well as inheriting a few blood-feuds with some boneheads up in Skyrim. Now," he adds, squinting against the blade's bitter gleam, "if you'd shown me this thing a few years ago. . ."  
  


"I wanted to."  
  


"Slipped your mind, eh? Hadn't decided if you wanted to sell it after all?"  
  


"Talin," warns J'hani.  
  


"I didn't  _ have _ it," snaps Gemile. "My father  _ stole _ it from me and sold it off to the Count of Cheydinhal, just after I came home from the palace."  
  


"A blade once stolen. . ." Talin smirks—for the first time, she notices a burn scar like candle wax on his cheek, pulling his lip in a strange direction when he smiles—and hands the dagger back to her. "Hold onto it."  
  


". . .all right," she says.  
  


"Something else I had to tell you. Uh, Caula Voria—"  
  


"—dead?"  
  


"Someone beat me to it?"  
  


"No. Just a guess." Gemile clears her throat. "When?"  
  


"After the whole mess ended. Was the rot carried her off, in the end."  
  


"I'm sorry about that," she mumbles. "I'd have liked to speak with her again."  
  


"I didn't know her, but I thought—you know—you ought to hear."  
  


"I suppose the Emperor is thrilled," she says.  
  


Talin chuffs. "Not half as thrilled as Cosades."  
  


"Hm." Gemile sits for a moment, until she remembers to exhale. "Pour us a drink, will you?"  
  


"Red?"  
  


"Please. Hey—" she says, sitting up, "the day you killed Tharn—did you—did she—Ria—"  
  


"Yeah," says Talin, passing her a glass. He points at J'hani. "White. Right?"  
  


"What makes you say that?" asks J'hani, pretending to frown.  
  


"White it is. Good choice." As he pours, smiling faintly, he turns back to Gemile. "She said goodbye and good luck and all, and then: _ 'right, now I get to see Gem'. _ Bursting with excitement."  
  


Gemile shakes her head, feeling sickly soft inside, like a rotting fruit.   
  


Umayra comes downstairs—Talin holds out a glass of red to her. For half an hour Gemile sits, mostly a bystander in their dawdling conversation, and then ties Ria's rings in their shawl again and turns to J'hani with a look of 'can we please go home?'.  
  


The walk back to the inn is brisk and cold. J'hani sits with her on the bed. "I didn't know Ria had come to you."  
  


Gemile half-smiles; her face flames, and an iron guilt settles behind her ribcage. "I was her last stop," she says shortly. "I don't really want to talk about it."  
  


"I understand." He stands and pulls his shirt over his head—as he undresses the rest of the way, he looks at her over his shoulder, as though he was seeing her for the first time. "You were beautiful with the children."  
  


She shrugs and reaches behind her, trying to free herself from the dress, but there's no contending with the stupid laces from this angle. "They were just Valens and Lavinia. Except Neneldi is meaner."  
  


"I think the little boy is just too timid to hit back."  
  


"Remind you of anyone?"  
  


"What?"   
  


Gemile twiddles her thumbs.  
  


"Who?" urges J'hani, sitting behind her. "—oh—me? Do you really think so?"  
  


"I do think so."  
  


"Well. Thank the lucky moons I was an only child." He crosses his legs and laughs lowly to himself as he starts to unlace her dress. "I do feel badly for him—such a musical soul—but—"  
  


"No ear at all," agrees Gemile. "Like Valens. Only Valens doesn't really care."  
  


"Mm." He bares her shoulders and starts to rub circles with his thumbs. "Do you think it might be nice. . .to have one of our own, one day?"  
  


"J'hani—"  
  


"We're fairly well off. We can make time, and we both have families who—"  
  


She stands, moving out of his reach, and the warmth of his hands falls away. "I knew it the fucking minute we stepped inside," she mutters, brusquely peeling the dress down past her hips and stepping out of it.  
  


"I thought perhaps enough time had passed."  
  


"I  _ have _ a child," hisses Gemile. "I don't  _ want _ another."  
  


"I know how you feel, Gemile, but—we're older now—perhaps even wiser—and—" He takes her hand and cranes his neck to look her in the eye, "—you have every choice in this."  
  


"Brilliant. Then we agree."  
  


J'hani sighs. "Please give it some thought. Please do me that honour."  
  


"Ah," says Gemile silkily, rooting around the open trunk for her nightdress. "It's my choice, unless I choose wrong."  
  


"Can you give me one good reason?"  
  


"Are you—"  
  


"One reason," he amends, putting up his hair, "without the name Martinus."  
  


"That's not reason enough? What if I just don't want to? End of story?" snaps Gemile. "Here's one," she adds, as it occurs to her, "you can see for yourself how that one wrecked me, and I was nineteen! What now? If I don't  _ die, _ I'll end up a Sload. Is that quite what you want?"  
  


". . .what?" J'hani stands opposite her and takes the balled-up nightdress from her hands and just—watches her. She folds her arms defensively. "Do you think you're wrecked?"  
  


His gaze feels heavy, an intolerable heaviness pools in every place his eyes touch. "Stop it."  
  


"I'm not doing anything."  
  


"Yes, you are. Stop."  
  


"Gem," he says slowly and deliberately, finally lifting his yellow eyes to hers, "you have not been wrecked in the slightest."   
  


"You can say what you like, it's not going to change my mind about—"  
  


"No," he mumbles, waving his hand dismissively, "that doesn't matter to me. All that matters to me is that you understand."  
  


"Understand  _ what? _ "  
  


"That you are whole," he says, meeting her look of exasperation with a smile, "and you are beautiful, with or without any scar."  
  


"You won't be saying that if I have your damned baby and I get twice as wide and can't sneeze without—"  
  


"We can adopt," he says. "It makes less than no difference to me. But enough," he adds quickly, lying back down on the bed. "I didn't want to upset you."  
  


"Well—" Gemile sighs and slips on the nightdress. It turns everything from her neck down to her knees into a formless sea of blue. She feels better. "I love you, and you know the way you have with words, but you can't honestly think that's going to change my mind about how—" She gestures vaguely at herself.  
  


"So what do you see?" J'hani props himself up on an elbow and points at the mirror.  
  


"I don't know," she says, giving herself a cursory once-over, "lines," she traces her smile lines and the crease between her brows. "Pinched mouth. Like my mother. Here—" she gestures at her midsection, "—a mess. I don't like doing this. Everything I point out, you're going to start seeing it as well."  
  


"And if I do?" he asks. "You will be the loveliest person on Nirn, all the same."  
  


"All right. It's your turn, then."  
  


"What?" he grins.  
  


"Up," she says. "I'm not going to be the only one being ogled."  
  


"Who is ogling?"  
  


" _ You. _ And me."  
  


J'hani throws her a look she can't decipher before hauling himself off the bed. "All right." He stands beside her. Gemile sidles out of view of the mirror. "My father's eyes," he says almost immediately.  
  


"Your—"  
  


"Before Do'vasha, I mean. I take after my blood father not at all, except his eyes. Here," he says, turning his head to the side and worrying the hair at his temple. "Not quite grey, not yet, but I watch the colour wash out—where the grey will be." He pauses, then passes a hand over the fine fur on his face, smoothing the black marks around his eyes. "I don't know many Ohmes-raht, but I hear that with some, these marks fade. I wonder, what would I look like? —a Cyrodiil with a tail?"  
  


"Would you get tattoos? Like Ajirra has?"  
  


J'hani ponders that for a moment. "I think I would. I hope the fur on my ears never thins. They would get so cold."  
  


"Elves seem to manage it all right."  
  


"Elves have never known anything different."  
  


Gemile shrugs. "What about the rest?"  
  


"The rest?"  
  


"You've only been looking at your face. There's more of you."  
  


"So there is," agrees J'hani, regarding himself with a kind of amused detachment. "I r—don't be angry," he says, half-laughing.  
  


"What?"  
  


"I really don't think very much at all about my body—that is—neither terribly impressive or terribly lacking—as long as my legs walk and my heart beats—and as long as you want me—"  
  


"Oh, for—"  
  


"—then my body is all I could want."  
  


"That's not fair."  
  


"It's the truth," says J'hani. "If I had any grudges at all, I would tell you so."  
  


"I wish I was that easy about it."  
  


"I can do it for you," he suggests, taking her hands. "Like this: you are beautiful, Gemile, and I want you just as I have always done."  
  


"That's fine, but it doesn't take the worry off my mind."  
  


"Let me hold the worry. Even a bit of it. Even for a short while."  
  


"How am I meant to do that?"  
  


He holds out his hands, flat, with the palms facing upward.  
  


She looks askance at him, waiting for an explanation, but none comes. "Well?"  
  


"Well?" he repeats.  
  


"Well, what?"  
  


"I'm waiting," says J'hani, barely holding back a laugh under her bemused gaze.  
  


"Waiting for  _ what? _ " she demands, although she's laughing, too.  
  


"Your worry," he says, bringing his hands closer to her.  
  


Gemile sighs. "Sweet Arkay."  
  


"He has nothing to do with this," says J'hani with a sudden intensity. "Go on."  
  


"What, d'you want me to—?" She makes a pincer of her hand and draws an imaginary worry out from her temple, and, giggling, deposits it in his hands. He lowers them a little, pretending to strain under the weight.  
  


"What worry is this?" he grunts. "It feels heavy."  
  


"Hm," she says, and motions around her smile lines. "Here comes another, then. It's very small." Delicately, she places another worry in his hands, delighting when he moves his hands by only the tiniest bit.  
  


"Small indeed," J'hani confirms.  
  


Gemile places down a number of worries, thinking of something different for each one—at last she considers the issue of children, of the scar, of being a mother—"Are you ready, love?"  
  


"Ready?"  
  


"This one is bigger than all the rest put together, easily."  
  


"Oh. All right." He braces himself, rolls his shoulders. "Go on."  
  


She takes the worry, struggling with it as though she were reeling in a great fish, and finally places it in J'hani's hands—he stoops with the effort.  
  


"Lie down," he directs, and she marvels to hear real strain in his voice. As she settles in the bed, he sets down the worries with, somehow, an eerily convincing  _ thunk. _ "I'll keep them with me for the night," says J'hani, putting out the lamp and lying down next to her. "You can take them back tomorrow. Or not."  
  


"Thank you," she says, and searches for him with her hands in the sudden dark. She floats her fingers over the back of his neck, feeling the little hills of his backbone. She kisses him, and smiles—each time, without fail, that tiny gasp he makes, as though no one had ever kissed him before. "I love you," she murmurs, pulling just far enough away to speak.  
  


J'hani half-sits up and presses his lips to her jaw, just beneath her ear. He inhales, seeming to wind up for it: "I love you."  
  


"So what'll we do?" she grins. "While I'm not bogged down with worries?"  
  


"Well, I—" J'hani pauses. "Here? Do you think so?"  
  


"And why not?"  
  


"I thought—"  
  


"He—it's in the pile. With the other worries. Just where you put it. So."  
  


"All right," he whispers, and kisses her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my hero of kvatch, mr. Orpheus Velvassius, makes his grand entrance! was it a silly joke to have a character named 'Orpheus' be an awful singer? maybe so...


	46. 3E 407, Morning Star 7 (!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is about an abortion - it's not necessarily graphic but it is the only thing this chapter is about. there's a summary in the end notes

Bollocks. What absolute fucking bollocks. She takes long paces, holding her woollen scarf over her mouth. How fucking typical that it should finally happen in Bravil, in this dump of a city that screams with flies in the summer and now, in the dead of winter, seems to have become a pocket of Coldharbour itself. Here, cut off from Gold Leaf, from her friends in Cheydinhal, and  _ now _ —  
  


She knocks impatiently on the Chapel doors, slamming the brass knocker as though she could break through with enough force. It takes a while for anyone to come, but at long last the thick double doors crack and a young Dunmer appears—painfully young, and flushed—giving Gemile the impression, despite his stony grey skin, of a soft fruit on the point of bursting. His hair, bone-white, falls into his eyes. "Evening.”  
  


"Good evening,” says Gemile. “I want to see the head priestess."  
  


He purses his lips. "'Fraid not, at this time of night."  
  


"I wasn't asking your permission."  
  


"Oh?" says the boy, and shifts his weight onto his other foot. "Well, she's asleep."  
  


"Then wake her."  
  


" _ I'm _ not going to wake her. She'll have my head," he mumbles—his voice is young, too, airy and tentative.  
  


"Then I will." Gemile's jaw twinges and she frowns as hard as she can—she's  _ not _ going to snivel tonight, not in front of some little stripling priest. She pushes past him and he nearly loses his balance.  
  


"Are you  _ mad? _ " he hisses. "I could call the Guard!"  
  


"You need to listen to me," says Gemile, spitting aside an involuntary sob. "I am—holding something that I can’t be holding tomorrow, do you understand me?"  
  


He seems to have gotten caught on something in her face while she was speaking. ". . .you're one of the Favoured of our Lady, aren't you?"  
  


"What?—I'm a—sign of the Ritual, if that's what you mean."  
  


"No," he says, and produces a small silver lancet from a sheath on his belt, and cuts open his palm. The blood looks black in the sparse, meagre lamplight of the temple. He holds out his bloodied hand to her, and she takes it in both of hers, as if compelled, feeling a well of frustration and fear.   
  


She clears her throat. "I—"  
  


A flash of light, nearly too bright to bear, and the blood between her hand and the soft hand of the priestling becomes uncomfortably hot. Pins and needles travel the length of both her arms, and when, in the fading cloud of light, she pulls away, the cut is gone.  
  


"Wow," says the boy. "I've never felt it myself."  
  


"Show me to the priestess," instructs Gemile, shaking off her own lingering amazement.  
  


"Yes." He motions for her to follow him and descends into the undercroft. After a series of quick turns, he points to a door as plain as any other, presses his finger to his lips, and departs.  
  


Gemile knocks soundly on the door, feeling her headache flare not for the first time today.   
  


"In," says a soft voice from inside.  
  


The priestess—if, indeed, she is the priestess—is an elven woman with exactly the same round, rosy quality to her face as the young priest. Her hair, copious and stark white, has been wrangled haphazardly into a half-bun, although it still spills down her front and clusters in the hollows of her shoulders. "Ah," she says. "Favoured of Mara. The warmth of Her benevolence precedes you."  
  


"You're the head priestess, then?"  
  


"Hlaila is my name. I suspect it was my little brother, Defar, who showed you in."  
  


Gemile sighs. "Listen. I need a service. I'm willing to pay very well to have this done tonight."  
  


"How long?" asks Hlaila, standing and straightening her nightdress.  
  


"I'll do a thousand. What?"  
  


"How  _ long, _ " repeats the priestess, smiling the vague smile of a painted portrait. "May I?" she asks, and reaches out with her plump hand. She lays it on Gemile's stomach. Gemile suppresses the sudden urge to gag.  
  


Hlaila calls up an unfamiliar spell; a pinkish light that stings Gemile’s skin a little. "Very well," she concludes after a moment. "Are you certain?"  
  


"Yes. Where—where—" Gemile sighs. "Yes."  
  


"I have a room," says Hlaila quickly, "reserved for matters like this. Come. It isn't far.”  
  


“All right.”  
  


"Have you other children?" she asks, as they wind through the frigid undercroft.  
  


"No," says Gemile tightly. "One."  
  


"Ah. And you are how old?"  
  


"Forty-one at the end of the season."  
  


"Mm."   
  


Hlaila flips through the keys on her overlarge keyring and slots one, gleaming iron, into the lock. The room is pleasant enough, once Hlaila has lit it with a few lamps; decked with pale, clean linen, and a bed in the centre which is little more than a mattress on a wooden frame.  
  


"Sit down, please," suggests Hlaila, and begins to flit about, gathering supplies. "So it's still quite early," she says. "What I'd prefer to do is give you a potion and keep you for the night."  
  


"The whole night?" asks Gemile.  
  


"After a certain point, if everything goes well, it will pass," says the priestess delicately. "I can't say how long, however."  
  


"And—and if I don't have the whole night?"  
  


"Then I can pass it by hand," says Hlaila. "Most people prefer the potion, but of course the choice is yours."  
  


"I. . ." Gemile wraps her arms around herself. She only has until the morning—she can't really wait around for some brew to take effect—but. . ."I'd prefer the potion, then," she says.  
  


"Absolutely." Their gazes meet for a moment, and Hlaila's red lips curve into a gentle smile. Her eyes are rubies in her flawless face. She sits on the bed beside Gemile and cracks open a massive alchemy volume, lighting a mage-flame on the point of her finger to help her see the fine print.   
  


The potion she hands to Gemile is barely darker than water, and warm to the touch. "It's not. . .delicious," Hlaila warns. "I suggest that you hold your nose."  
  


So Gemile does, tipping back the contents of the bottle as if it were a strong drink.  
  


Hlaila takes the bottle back. "What do you taste?"  
  


"Er," Gemile frowns. "Dragon's tongue. And something like fish, but not. . ."  
  


"Perfect," says the priestess. "Perfect, perfect." She rises and points to a door in the wall to an adjacent room. "There's a little bathroom just there. Please come and find me when it's passed, and I'll give you something for the blood."  
  


"All r—" Gemile swallows. "Head priestess."  
  


"Hlaila," says Hlaila pleasantly.  
  


"Please—please stay here."  
  


The priestess smiles as if she'd been expecting as much. "Of course." She takes a chair from the corner of the room and crosses her legs. "Would you like to give me your name?" she asks.  
  


"Not really. Can I give you a different one?"  
  


"Of course."  
  


Gemile takes a breath. "Er—Lucia."  
  


"Lucia. It's a pleasure." Hlaila beams at her.  
  


It happens well before sunrise, by the grace of Mara. Hlaila stays the entire time, a handful of hours. She catches on quickly that Gemile doesn't want silence, and so she prattles about the comings and goings of the temple—silly little pieces of gossip; stupid rows the priests have had, embarrassing things Hlaila's younger brother has done, the best recipe for ash yam stew. 

At one point, Gemile doubles over with cramp and disappears into the side room, and Hlaila mixes up another potion to stop the bleeding and unpleasantness.  
  


"You might also put a spoonful of this in your morning drink," says Hlaila, handing her a flask of something dark-green. "For another ten days or so. And of course you know where to find me at any moment if you need my help. Defar will see you out."  
  


She rises. Gemile stands, too, and puts her overcoat and cloak back on.  
  


"Forgive me." Hlaila clears her throat. "But I must give you the counsel of Mother Mara before you go."  
  


"And what's that?" asks Gemile, finding, with difficulty, the strength to speak.  
  


"If your—husband or wife? Or—"  
  


"Husband," she sighs. The priestess must have glimpsed her ring, with its gem white as Jone in the night.  
  


"If he loves you, he will understand. Trust him, and allow him to trust you, and you will do the purest will of Mara."  
  


"Fine. Thank you. I'll go find. . ." The priest boy's name doesn't come to her. "’Bye. Thank you."  
  


She stows the flask in the pocket of her cloak and hoists herself up the staircase. 

Once or twice on the way home, her mouth fills with bile.

She makes tea, eventually, although it must be three or four in the morning. 

She goes to bed.   
  


J'hani wakes her in the morning, smelling of spice, wearing the tired, bewildered, overjoyed expression a long trip always gives him. She falls into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still operating out of Bravil - a city she resents - Gemile visits the temple of Mara in the dead of night. J'hani is due to return from a work trip the next morning. A young priest shows her to the quarters of the head priestess, Hlaila. Gemile tells the head priestess that she is pregnant and Hlaila takes her into a sickroom and offers her a potion to end the pregnancy. Gemile and Hlaila wait together for the potion to take effect. Before sunrise, Gemile returns home; a few hours later, J'hani greets her.


End file.
